Best of Breed
by Lampito
Summary: Dean's not enjoying the approach of his impending *mumblemumble*th birthday. Sam is threatening to feed him to a giant alligator named Mr Tinkle, and insists he'll find their next job, because those high heels nearly crippled him on this one. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

I miss Jimi, can we have another Jimi fic, I want more of Jimi, when does Dean start his breeding program, I've got a Jimi plot bunny for you... the Denizens of the Jimiverse are a demanding lot. You get some G.W.N. by request, and you get all pushy... just when I thought I might get a bit of peace, this _furry little bastard_ of a plot bunny was sitting in my tea mug last night. I sat down at the computer to do some work on the bank statements, and - poof! - like an angel invading my personal space, there it was. I hold you all responsible. I have a very vague inkling of a plot for where this might go, but I'll have to see what the bunnies say, and how much time I have.

**DISCLAIMER:** None of it is mine, I just make them shriek, throw them into lavender bushes and tear their clothes off for the amusement of others.

**TITLE:** Best of Breed

**RATING:** T. Dean talks. Nuff said.

**SUMMARY:** Dean is not enjoying the approach of his impending *mumblemumble*th birthday. Sam is threatening to feed him to a giant alligator named Mr Tinkle, and insists that he'll find their next job, because those high heels nearly crippled him on this one.

**BLAME:** I aim a special Swat of Bunny Squashing at eebil PaulatheCat (all cats being eebil, since they are all born with two feet in the next world and one of those in Hell), for planting the seed, and then all the other Denizens who watered it, tended it, weeded around it, and keep shovelling on the fertiliser. Denizens of the Jimiverse: they're depraved, but they get shit done.

**SETTING:** A Jimiverse story. Set a few years after 'Teething Trouble', where both Jimi (who is about seven) and Dean (who is still thirty-something-thank-you-very-much) are dealing with middle age - strangely enough, neither of them act particularly middle-aged, but Dean is a lot more uptight about it.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Sam was Not Happy.

Dean knew the tells that indicated that Sam was Not Happy: the shutting of the car door that was not quite enough of a slam to warrant Dean taking him to task, but harder than necessary. The shoving of the hands into the pockets. The stomping of the gigantic feet back to the room. The wrenching of the key in the door.

And, of course, the ruthless deployment of The Bitchface, which just happened this time to be Bitchface #10™ (Tonight, You Die In Your Sleep).

Jimi whined softly, and butted his big square head under Dean's hand. He didn't like it when his Alpha and his Second had a disagreement beyond their usual pup-like squabbling.

"It's okay, fella," Dean reassured the anxious eyes, "He's pissed at me, not you."

Inside, Sam sat down stiffly, groaning. "I'm gonna salt and burn those things," he muttered.

"So, you want first call on the shower?" asked Dean. "The hot water will help."

"What I want," Sam growled ominously, "Is to trade my legs in for a pair that haven't been wandering around in homicidal shoes. Fuck me, how the hell do women walk in these things?"

"Well, I guess they call 'em 'killer heels' for a reason," Dean ventured a small joke.

Sam squashed it mercilessly with a crushing blow from his Not Happy.

"It's just as well I can barely see with all this crap around my eyes," he went on, "Because if I'd been able to see clearly, I'd probably have developed vertigo. Aaaaaargh! OW!" He dropped one set of false eyelashes, and stomped on it as if it was a bug. "OW!" Stomping just reinforced the aching in his legs.

"Maybe you should just, er, go clean up, and you'll feel better afterwards," suggested Dean.

Sam stood gingerly. "Yes, I think I will," he smiled humourlessly, "Because I will enjoy gutting you with one of these," and he brandished one of the offending high heel shoes, "So much more if I can watch your face while I twist the heel into your pancreas."

"Sounds like a good reason to shower first," agreed Dean, although when Sam was in such a Not Happy mood, he'd probably agree to anything up to and including line-dancing if it would clear the air. He sensibly kept his mouth shut as Sam wiggled out of the shimmering silver lamé harem pants and gauzy black blouse, and threw them viciously into a corner.

"You, er, need help to get your nails off?" offered Dean.

Sam smiled. "I thought I might take a lesson from cats," he told his brother, "You know, find something to scratch and rip and shred until the old nails come off…"

Dean sighed. "Look, Sam, I understand you're upset…"

"No, Dean, you do not understand!" Sam shot back, "I have spent the entire evening walking around on heels that should be against the law, or at least require that the wearer file a flight plan with the nearest air traffic control tower before putting them on, dressed in a way that would get a teenager grounded until she was forty, with enough shit on my face to keep a Big Hair metal band going for six months, and.. and… and… AAAAAARGH!" He pulled off the other false eyelash set. "I have an overwhelming urge to spray these things with Raid! If I don't, I'm pretty sure they'll crawl up into the corners and spin webs…"

"Look, Sam, you did a great job!" Dean decided to try a pep talk. "You kept the humans and the spirit distracted – you kept them entertained, if the cheering was anything to go by – we got the job done, Jimi sniffed out the wig, I salted and burned it. AND you won!"

"Yeah, I won," muttered Sam, "That's really something I want to put on my CV and tell the world, 'Winner of RuPaul Impersonation Contest'."

"You got a sash, Sammy," Dean pointed out.

"All the better to strangle you with," groused Sam.

"And a tiara, too."

"All the better to brain you with."

"And money, Sam, don't forget, you actually won money!" Dean changed tack. "You are now in possession of legitimately acquired money, from your own talent and hard work. You gotta be happy about that. Think about how much shampoo and shower gel and salad you can buy with five hundred bucks!"

"At least I'll be able to pay for the heat packs, the liniment and the physiotherapy," sniped Sam. "And some aloe gel, or calamine. I have razor rash on my ankles." He winced. "Between that and the shoes, I don't think I'll be able to walk properly for a week."

"Well then, we'll just tell people you were working overtime as a high-class escort to a very demanding client," grinned Dean, sending another brave little joke over the parapet. It died in a hail of semi-automatic large calibre full metal Not Happy, wiping the grin right off his face. "Come on, Sam," he wheedled, "It all worked out, job done, now we can blow this place."

"I am never letting you plan a Hunt again without reading all the fine print," Sam muttered, "And next time the angry spirit is bumping off drag artistes, _you_ can play dress-ups and risk breaking an ankle in shoes that are tall enough to require that the wearer carry oxygen!"

"I could never have carried it off," Dean pointed out, "The ghost liked 'em tall and sensitive. And anyway, I can't sing, or so you keep telling me. You're the one who has forbidden me to do karaoke because you say it reminds you of The Cage! They loved you! Only a ginormous emo could have put that sort of conviction into 'You Think You're A Man'. And in case you didn't realise, at least half of your screaming admirers were women!"

"I will find our next job," Sam muttered, brandishing his Not Happy and daring Dean to say anything. "Hopefully, I can find a haunted alligator farm, where the angry spirit of a careless keeper is haunting the mouth of their most prized breeding animal, a 15-foot, 1,000 pound male named Mr Tinkle, and one of us has to go and get that last little piece of bone stuck between his back teeth out to salt and burn, and one of us has to distract the staff by pretending to take an interest in their range of boots, belts and handbags. Guess which role you're going to get, Dean?"

"Sounds great. You know I've always wanted a pair of alligator skin boots…" Dean's small determined kamikaze joke died the same horrible squishy Death By Not Happy of its predecessors. "Er, why would anyone name a giant man-eating crocodile 'Mr Tinkle'?"

"Because that's the effect he has on everybody who goes into his enclosure," Sam speculated. "You might not want to wear your favourite jeans."

"Er. Okay." Dean slumped in defeat. Having made it all the way to the summit of High Dudgeon, Sam was clearly not planning on coming back down any time soon. "Right, well, you find our next job, then, and I'll, I'll… you wouldn't really feed me to a crocodile, would you?" he asked Sam in a small voice.

Sam smiled. "Right now, Dean, I'd shove sage and onion stuffing into every orifice of your body first, and grin while I did it."

"Oh." Dean looked puzzled. "Do alligators even like sage and onion?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted, "I guess we'll find out when I feed you to Mr Tinkles. If he turns his snout up at you, I'll try something else, maybe cranberry and chestnut, pear and pecan, rosemary and lemon. As a last resort, I could just rub a dead chicken all over you, that'd probably do it. Dean Winchester – the other, other white meat."

"You have put far too much thought into this," mumbled Dean.

"Well, having your toes crushed, you legs crippled and your eyes glued shut with cheap mascara, it clarifies the mind wonderfully."

"Look, Sam, the next time we have a job that involves any sort of dressing up, even as much as a false moustache, I'll do it," Dean waved an olive branch. "I'm sorry you're feeling crippled. I'll even buy dinner tonight. With vegetables and everything."

Sam threw a bill on the table. "Here. Onion rings and fries do NOT count as 'vegetables'."

"No, Sam, I said I'll get it. You keep your hard-earned cash for something worthwhile. Like a haircut, maybe?" Dean grinned hopefully – this time, the little joke scuttled across the bare ground and made it to the next trench safely. "Some counselling for Post-Lamé Stress Disorder? At least a higher quality mascara..."

"Jerk." Sam headed for the bathroom. Dean sighed, and slumped down onto his bed, leaning against the headboard. Jimi climbed up beside him and dropped his head into his Alpha's lap with a small whuff of moral support.

"Okay, then, I'll just watch some TV with Jimi, because he loves me unconditionally and will no doubt try to save me from Mr Tinkle by the cunning strategy of letting himself be swallowed then chewing his way out but if he doesn't and he ends up a dog-burger it'll be all your fault and you'll be really sorry and he'll haunt you and make everything you own smell of lavender by doing ghost dog farts and you'll end up clutching his blanket to your anguished bosom and crying like a little bitch because you miss him so much. Don't say I didn't warn you."

A hand reached around the bathroom door and flipped him off.

Dean humphed, and started channel surfing. MTV was airing a 70s retrospective...

When Sam emerged from the bathroom, he expected to see his brother doing one of several things: sharing a bag of corn chips with Jimi, cleaning a weapon, or maybe making Sam's laptop freeze on a particularly distasteful porn site.

What he did not expect was to see Dean dancing about, wearing Sam's wig and tiara, singing along with Gloria Gaynor.

"Dean, what the hell?..." he gaped at his big brother.

"I should've changed that stupid lock, I should've made you leave your key," warbled Dean accusingly, getting down and getting funky, "If I'd known for just one second - come on Sammy, sing with me!"

Sam smiled incredulously as Dean bounced around the room again, proclaiming his determination not to be used as a casual emotional football and reaffirming that he would withstand the emotional upheaval.

By the time the song got to the second verse, Sam was wearing his sash and singing into his hairbrush. Jimi woofed excitedly, and joined the game, jumping around with his Pack, greyed muzzle gaping in a doggy grin and tail wagging furiously.

_It was something he'd long ago accepted, the dynamics of squabbling an__d play between the other two of his Pack. Sometimes they had serious disagreements – it was only to be expected in such a pack, with two dominant animals, litter-brothers. He had once wondered why Second didn't leave, take a bitch and start a pack of his own – he was alpha material in his own right – but he had come to understand that he didn't want to. Just as Jimi had chosen his Pack, so had Second._

_They were like pups, sometimes, like now, Elders who behaved in a way that would not be tolerated by dominant animals. He had long held suspicions that they had lost their dam before they were ready to leave her den, otherwise she would have disciplined them. In her absence, their pack, their dam's litter-sisters, should have taken over. Maybe they had lost their pack, too._

_He thought briefly of his own dam, who had left her matter some time ago. Her Alpha, the Wise Elder that he sometimes thought of as a member of his Pack due to the deference his Alpha and Second showed, still missed her. He didn't understand why – she had been old, and it was the way of things, but humans could be… complicated that way. Their longmemory worked differently, he was sure of that._

_The__ disagreement dissolved, as such things always did, eventually, into the comfortably familiar bickering with the unmissable undercurrent of affection between them. His eyes lit up when his Alpha solicited play with his Second, who joined in the game, and he jumped and wrestled with them. He had never been one to feel his age, except for the slight twinge in his back legs when the weather got cold, now, so the three of them played, Elders behaving like pups, and not caring at all…_

"You do realise that you'll probably go to Hell for mangling Gloria Gaynor like that," asked Sam as the song finished.

"It's not the voice, it's the feeling behind the words," sighed Dean, "I won't be used and thrown away! Don't objectify me! I'm not making you a sandwich!"

"You go, girl," Sam rolled his eyes. "Now, I believe there was some offer of getting food?"

"And you say I have a one track mind," commented Dean, removing the wig. "So, some nice foliage for the vegiesaurus, and chicken wings for you, J-Man?" Jimi licked his chops, and wagged his tail.

"He's not supposed to have too much stuff like that Dean," Sam said disapprovingly, "He's middle-aged now – in dog age, he's around sixty. Dr Woolley says we have to keep an eye on his weight, what with his size and everything."

"She also says he doesn't have a spare ounce of fat on him, and he's got the best musculature and teeth she's ever seen in a dog over six years old," countered Dean. "Between me and his daddy, he got a good dose of the I'm-Too-Hot-To-Get-Old-And-Fat genes."

"Well, from you, he got the I'm-Too-Hot-To-Get-Fat thing, at any rate…" Sam said casually.

Dean immediately frowned. "I'm not listening," he declared. "You're only as old as you feel. Or you're only as old as the person you feel. Or something."

"Birthdays happen to everybody, Dean," smirked Sam, "Most people look forward to 'em."

"Well, I don't," grumped Dean.

"They say it's the new thirty, you know," supplied Sam innocently.

"You are very close to having your tiara refashioned into a piece of very intimate jewellery, Samantha."

"Oooooh, touchy!" Sam sat on his bed and opened the laptop. "Go get food, and I'll start looking for our next job. Which will NOT involve wigs, make-up, or arachnid eyelashes in any way. Something worthy of your birthday."

"Will you at least feed me to Mr Tinkle before then?" Dean almost whined.

"You don't want your present first?" Sam looked up.

"Depends what it is," Dean answered suspiciously.

"I haven't decided yet," Sam told him airily. "Something appropriate for a mature man of your advancing years. A walking stick, maybe? A lap rug? Some lawn bowls tuition? Viagra? Sustagen? Custom-fit continence pads?"

"Bitch," muttered Dean grimly. "Are you coming, J-Man?"

Jimi considered the request, then jumped onto Sam's bed to stretch out next to his legs, performing Canine Heat Pack therapy.

"Et tu, Brute," Dean snorted in disgust.

* * *

><p>For info: The lady Hellhound who had, ahem, sexy time with a very young Jimi at the end of 'Balls' is still keeping herself hidden away in Hell, where time of any sort (including gestation period) has no strict meaning. If she ever comes in and jumps up on the couch with a plot bunny in her mouth, I'll write something (right after I get the fire extinguisher and put out the flaming couch). And If I ever write how Ronnie and Andrew met up and paired up, it won't be here unless there is some sort of Winchester involvement, because this is for Supernatural stories, not OC stories, so it might end up on LiveJournal or something.<p>

Reviews are the Plot Bunny Poo around the stem of the FanFiction Tree of Life!


	2. Chapter 2

The plot bunnies are gathering, and I may be able to work a couple of suggestions/requests from the Denizens into this eventually. We'll see where it goes - looks like the one PaulatheCat sent me is going to demand a hearing, furry little bastard (I stood on my chair and tried to shoo it away with a broom, but to no avail). But first, this one insists it be heard...

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Sam was pecking at his laptop a couple of days later when Dean did the Smug Strut Of Self-Satisfaction (because the Walk Of Shame was completely unknown on Planet Dean) back into their room after keeping company with an informed consenting lady the previous night.

"So, do we have another Hunt yet?" asked Dean cheerfully, as Jimi woofed fondly and engaged in a happy greeting ritual.

"Yeah, we are headed for Florida," replied Sam, looking up. "Somebody's happy this morning."

"What's not to be happy about?" breezed Dean, "The sun is shining, we have a job lined up, and Amanda made me pancakes. Remarkable woman, remarkable."

"I wouldn't have picked her as your type, you know," commented Sam.

"What do you mean?" Dean looked puzzled. "Hot chicks are exactly my type."

"Look, I know it was dark in that bar, bro," Sam explained, "But since when does a woman with biceps to rival your own count as 'hot'?"

Dean looked genuinely offended. "I'm surprised at you, Sam," he sniffed, "And you accuse me of being shallow. She's a weightlifter, and yes, she may be just a little bigger in the shoulders than a lot of ladies…"

"I had no idea that the Prince Charming curse thing with Ronnie left you with a lingering hankering for women with tattoos and better pecs than yours," grinned Sam. "Or maybe as you get older, you're just realising that you can't be as picky any more…"

Dean scowled at his little brother. "She also had an imagination to rival mine," he said defensively, "And might I go on record as saying that push-up contests with you were never so much fun, nor did they ever come to such enjoyable conclusions…"

"Dean, veering towards T.M.I. there," warned Sam.

"…'Pull and shrug' takes on a whole new meaning, seen from floor level…"

"Dean!" barked Sam, "Too! Much! Information!"

"…And certainly, I will never think about the words 'jerk' or 'snatch' the same way ever again..."

"Gah!" Sam shot a dose of Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk) in Dean's direction.

So, tell me about our job in Florida," his big brother smirked at him, smugification somewhat restored.

"Something worthy of your birthday," smiled Sam, as Dean's face desmugified a few degrees at the mention of the b-word.

"So, what is it?" his big brother wanted to know. "Haunted brothel? Please tell me it's a haunted brothel. A poltergeist in a gentleman's bar? Mysterious deaths at a Hooters? Oh, oh, I know – possessed strippers. We've never done a job with possessed strippers. Why have you never found us a job with possessed strippers?"

His little brother stared at him. "That's amazing," Sam told him in wonder. "That's just totally amazing. How the hell did you know that?" He frowned at Dean. "Have you been messing with my laptop, going through my files?"

"No, Sammy," beamed Dean, "But I would've if you'd told me about the possessed strippers. So, what's the deal?"

Sam consulted his notes. "In the last three weeks, this troupe of strippers has left a trail of patrons with their heads torn off – a couple of witnesses who escaped said they saw the strippers' eyes turn black, but police put it down to a combination of panic, hysteria and alcohol."

Dean broke into a huge grin. "All right! Definitely possessed strippers! So, first of all we need to check out their act, right?"

"That's what I thought," agreed Sam. "And it's happened sporadically, so we might have to go to more than one performance."

"Yeah, yeah, good thinking, Sammy," Dean nodded vigorously.

"And since the, er, fatalities have occurred when patrons have requested, um, private performances," Sam's voice registered a faint note of embarrassment, "It'll probably be necessary to ask for that."

"Yeah, definitely check that out," Dean agreed fervently.

"So, one of us has to check out the strippers, and the other cases the joint for signs on demonic activity…" Sam shot a wistful look at Dean. "I just know that the whole over-protective big brother thing will kick in, so I don't suppose there's any point me arguing with you over you using yourself as demon bait?"

"Hey, it's my duty as a big brother to keep you safe," Dean said piously. "I couldn't possibly let my baby bro walk into that sort of danger. I'd never forgive myself if those evil, gyrating, scantily-clad villains harmed a single adorably styled hair on his precious little head."

"That's what I thought," sighed Sam in a resigned tone. "And I know there's no point me telling you that I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, so I won't even bother to argue."

"That's right, Sam," confirmed Dean, "Because nothing is more important to me than your safety. You leave the evil strippers to me."

"Right. So, the attacks have taken place right after the, er, novelty acts, when the clients were presumably at their most, um, distracted..."

Dean swallowed. "Novelty acts?" he asked casually.

Sam's face pinked, and he stuttered a little. "Um, they all have, sort of, party tricks. Individual party tricks. With, um, toys..." his voice trailed off. He looked at Dean with his most entreating puppy-dog eyes.

Dean turned his most resolute face to Sam. "Don't you worry, Sammy," he said, "You leave the recon to me. I won't have you risk yourself against this sort of evil. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you."

Sam looked relieved. "Thanks, big bro," he smiled. "So, I'll get you a ticket online," he turned back to the laptop, "Gold class. They're performing again in a few days. I figure you go in, do a recon of the venue, get your private show – how many demons can you handle at once here?" He peered at the screen. "You can get one, two or three."

"Three, Sam, book three," instructed Dean quickly. Sam looked worried. "They'll get over-confident and be more likely to try something if they think they have me outnumbered," Dean explained, "And we want to make sure they try something. The more of them in the one place, the better. Easier to exorcise that way."

Sam looked thoughtful. "Well, I guess if we make sure you have the knife…"

"I'll be fine, Sam, and you'll be outside, waiting to burst in and help, the minute the party tricks are over, right?" Dean beamed at him.

Sam seemed happy enough with that. "Okay, then. Oh, hey, every private show with three or more gets a free lap-dance." He looked worried again. "Can you handle a demonic lap-dance?"

Dean's expression was pure Daddy's Little Soldier. "It's part of the job, Sam," he said with serious determination, "We save people. We do what we have to, to finish the Hunt."

"Okay, then." Sam clicked a few more keys, then sat back. "Okay, you are booked in for the revue, then a private show, and, er, complimentary lap-dance…"

"Ah, I love ganking evil," Dean helped himself to a beer from the small refrigerator.

"…From Mr Magic's Marvellous Macho Men," finished Sam.

Dean sprayed a mouthful of beer across the room.

"Fnaaaargh?" he said.

"All organised, bro," continued Sam, turning around the laptop. The screen showed the webpage for a group of men with large muscles and small costumes that appeared to be made entirely from sequins and string, grinning lewdly. "So, if we hit the road, we should be there in time for your birthday, even!"

Dean gawped in horror. "Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!" he shrieked. "Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!"

"So, provided you have the knife, and as much holy water and salt as you can carry without looking suspicious…"

"SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!" yodelled Dean.

"What?" asked Sam.

"I am NOT watching MALE STRIPPERS!" spluttered Dean in outrage. "You didn't TELL ME they were MALE STRIPPERS! Why didn't you TELL me they were MALE STRIPPERS? ! ? !"

"You didn't ask,' replied Sam reasonably.

"GUYS taking their PANTS OFF, Sam! Guys wearing SPARKLY CHANGE PURSES, Sam! NOT HAPPENING, SAM! NOT HAPPENING!"

"What's the problem?" asked Sam. "You don't have to dress up like a woman or anything. They're an enlightened group, they don't discriminate. See? I booked you in on Gentlemen's Night."

"SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!"

"It's all good, bro. I even got a discount – they're running a special offer on milestone birthdays, 'The big F.-Zero Hero' offer. All you gotta do is show some I.D. with a birth date on it."

"_SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!"_

Sam looked bewildered. "Dean, what's wrong?" he asked. "What happened to doing what we have to do to finish the Hunt, and save people?

Dean's eyes bugged in horror. "I don't believe you could do this to me," he said in a small voice, "It's just… it's just… GUYS! SPARKLES! CHANGE PURSES! GAAAAAAAAH!"

"Don't forget the party tricks, bro. And the lap-dance," Sam reminded him, his mouth twitching.

"GUYS, Sam! GUYS! NO PANTS! SEQUINS! MALE! WHAT?" Dean paused in his rant, and glared at his little brother. Sam let out a strangled snort, and grinned innocently.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Ohhhhh, you are dead meat, Samantha," he rumbled ominously, "You – are – SO – dead – meat…"

Sam lost his composure completely, and howled with laughter. "The look on your face, bro," he wheezed between gasps, "The look on your face!"

"Are you suicidal?" asked Dean between clenched teeth. "Do you really want to start a war with the Prankmeister?" Sam ignored him, collapsing onto his bed, still laughing.

"I could actually get you a ticket, you know," he finally managed, "Without the lap-dance maybe."

"I totally hate you," Dean grumbled, taking another drink of beer. Jimi sat next to him and whuffed, offering a paw in moral support. "At least Jimi still loves me. He's loyal, and adorable, AND he would NEVER prank me with the offer of possessed strippers. You're cruel, Sam, you're just cruel. I'm your big brother."

"Yeah, maybe I should have more respect for my _older _brother," mused Sam as Dean glared at him anew. "Oh, come on," he continued, "For as long as I can remember, you've been like 'I'm am older, so you will do what I say'. So, what, now you suddenly don't want to be reminded that you're older than me?"

"There's no need to rub it in," whined Dean, patting Jimi's head despondently.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Jesus Dean, you should be celebrating!" he exclaimed. "It's nothing short of a damned miracle! I mean, the average age a Hunter doing the job full-time reaches is, what, thirty-five? You're a freak, just like Dad. You've beat the odds! You're still alive, and still chasing tail, and still kicking ass! You should be shouting it from the rooftops. I'm Dean Winchester, and I'm for…"

"Don't you use the f-word!" Dean hissed at him. "Don't you _dare_ use the f-word!"

"Okay, okay," Sam agreed placatingly, "But I think you're over-reacting." He turned back to the laptop. "I have actually found something," he continued. "There's been a string of disappearances of prize-winning dogs, both show dogs and obedience trialling dogs. The bodies that have been found afterwards have been missing pieces, specific parts or organs, and are bled out. I think there might be something in our line of work, here. It's something more than some dog-hater who's sick of the dog crap on the nature strip. I don't have an exact plan yet, and I think we need to pick Bobby's brains. I think we might also want to talk to Ronnie."

"Fine," said Dean, finishing his beer and standing up to start packing his bag, "You keep at the research, and we'll go see Bobby. Just as soon as we're done in Florida."

"Actually, there hasn't been a disappearance in Florida, I just picked that state when I was telling you the story about the possessed strippers…"

"Oh, I think we should go via Florida," said Dean with forced cheerfulness, "Because I am going to find an alligator farm, and feed _you_ to Mr Tinkle."

"Consider it payback for making me dress up as RuPaul," suggested Sam.

"Nope, definitely feeding you to Mr Tinkle," repeated Dean, "I just hope the poor old guy doesn't choke on a furball while trying to digest your gigantic girly-haired Sasquatch ass." Dean studied his little brother critically. "I'll definitely have to tie some steak to you first, hide the stench of salad. I don't want Mr Tinkle to get an upset tummy, and throw you up."

"Alligators will eat herbivores," Sam pointed out, "So that shouldn't be a problem."

"Okay, I'll just give you a good dousing in barbeque sauce, then, " grunted Dean, "And hang a dead chicken around your neck for good measure."

"And as a bonus, after you've watched Mr Tinkle drag me into the water and swallow me whole, you'll be able to look at some really well established retirement communities while you're there," Sam pointed out helpfully.

"Bitch."

_Jimi watched the squabbling unfold between his Alpha and his Second. Second had laid the ambush this time: his Alpha's posture and outraged barking indicated that this particular skirmish had not gone his way. He snuggled himself against his Alpha, whuffing in solidarity. He knew that a few days from now, the situation could well be reversed, and he would be sympathising with his Second._

_He studied his Alpha through the eyes of the Hunter's dog. Recently, he'd been... thoughtful. Considering things. Which was perfectly normal for an Elder who was getting older - Elders who survived to get older became wiser, but... his Alpha was not happy about something. Jimi wondered if maybe his legs twinged in the cold weather, too. He had a limp that human eyes probably wouldn't notice, and his Alpha was very good at concealing physical weakness._

_Elders who got older before they left their matter got aches and pains, that was just the way of things. But there would always be play, and the Hunt, and his Pack, until he left his matter protecting them. That was the way of things, too._

_Jimi whuffed contentedly and pushed his head under his Alpha's hand, soliciting play._

* * *

><p>Plot bunnies willing, I will get on with the main story next chapter. True dinks. Meanwhile, reviews are the Barbeque Sauce on the... they're the Dead Chicken Around The Neck of the... they're the Change Purses on the... um, they're really nice and I like them a lot.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The Winchesters waved up to the gargoyles on the gates when they arrived at Singer's Salvage. The one on the left-hand gate grinned hugely, and the one on the right-hand gate gave them a shy little wave in return.

Janis was lounging on the hood of Bobby's truck, and jumped down to meet them, barking cheerfully and tail wagging. Sam noticed that there was a large wooden crate next to it, and the dog used it to make her way back to ground level. She exchanged greetings with Jimi, and they began rassling over a bedraggled tug toy.

"Jeez, you still got this?" asked Dean incredulously. He'd fashioned the toy from a piece of rope when Rumsfeld's litter were just a few weeks old. "Phew! Apparently, some old toys never die, they just smell as if they have."

"Maybe they age, like wine or cheese," mused Sam. "Or compost," he added, catching a whiff of Eau de Dog Toy.

"You knock that off, ya idjits!" called Bobby has he came out to meet them. The dogs made a beeline for him. "You're supposed to be takin' it easy, madam! Aaaargh!" He fended off enthusiastic greetings. "So am I! Shoo! We're both supposed to be a bit careful," he grinned ruefully at the Winchesters, "We've both had cortisone injections in our shoulders recently." He flapped his hands at the dogs until they left off, and retired to slouch under the large gnarled rosemary plant that was a favourite canine resting place. It was still in bloom, the blood red flowers having covered the foliage after Rumsfeld's ashes had been sprinkled around it a few weeks earlier.

"So, what were you two old women doing?" asked Dean cheekily. "Polishing your lawn bowls? Hoarding cats? Extreme crochet?"

"Bakin' you a birthday cake – we should never have tried to lift the box of candles without help," Bobby deadpanned. Sam laughed, while Dean looked mournful. "In fact, we were dealing with a demon who was dumb enough to try to get through the wards."

"What happened?" asked Sam, concerned.

"Same thing that always happens," Bobby waved a hand airily, "Asshat demon smokes into some poor dead guy, and a badly dressed one at that, and wants a) revenge, b) some artefact I got stashed in the house, c) my head on a platter, or d) all o' the above."

"So, what happened after that?" pressed Sam.

"Janis grabbed him, I stabbed him, Zan commandeered his smartphone, and Tiem wore his tie for a week," answered Bobby.

Dean looked back towards the gates. "I didn't see him with a tie," he commented.

"It was fluorescent green. I confiscated it," confided Bobby. "For safety reasons."

"Wasn't that a bit of an over-reaction?" Dean went on, "A stone gargoyle is hardly going to choke himself with a tie."

"He didn't wrap it around his_ neck_," explained Bobby, "And the vicar walked into a tree."

"Oh. Er," said Sam.

"I nearly had a heart attack when he was patrollin' with it there, glowin' in the dark like that," Bobby went on.

"Yeah, thanks Bobby, for drawing me that charming mental picture," Sam rolled his eyes.

"Looked like some incoming miniature air-to-surface missile," Bobby didn't seem to hear him.

"Oh, God, you didn't have to go and colour it in," moaned Sam.

"I gotta tell ya, it aint the sort of thing a body wants to see at 3 a.m." Bobby finished.

"Oh, I don't know about that," mused Dean thoughtfully, "You know you can buy these glow-in-the-dark rubbers, and what you can do, you can…"

"Dean, if the next words out of your mouth include 'hide and seek', 'peekaboo' or 'alien tentacle', I will strangle you with your own libido," scowled Sam with a shot of Bitchface #6™.

"You'll have to excuse Mr Vanilla, here, Bobby," Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, "He was frightened by a fluorescent prophylactic as a small child…"

"Only because you tied it over a carrot and chased me around the basement with it," Sam muttered murderously.

"Well, you asked me what was in the little box," defended Dean.

"You told me you were carrying the egg of a brain-sucking Martian Booger-Worm around as a science project!" snapped Sam accusingly. "You told me it hatched, and had to feed on young tender smart brains so it could grow into a Booger Butterfly!"

"You screamed like a girl," grinned Dean.

"Much as I regret interrupting these happy reminiscences about your sex ed sessions, boys..." Bobby began wryly.

"Ha! Hold the 'ed' bit," growled Sam, "Unless you count having your big brother tell you that rubbing it with IcyHot would promote testosterone production and make you grow up faster as 'education'…"

Bobby let out a long-suffering sigh. "Why don't you come inside and tell me what you're actually here for, apart from raiding my refrigerator, turning what's left of my hair grey and generally breaking my idjitometer by sending it off the scale?"

"Sam wants to ask you about a job he thinks he's found," answered Dean. "Oh, and he needs to know if you have any alligators living in the stream. I bet you could fit a man-eating Mr Tinkle in that swimming hole we made when we were kids. Plus, we've run out of IcyHot, and the testosterone fairy hasn't come to visit yet…"

Bobby slapped him upside the head as they moved inside.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Who's Bob?" asked Dean, peering at the map.

"B.o.B.," corrected Sam, "Best of Breed. So, for this one, it was the Best of Breed," Sam pointed to a map, "Then, two weeks later, at this one, Best in Show…"

"He's lost it, Bobby," sighed Dean, lounging on the sofa sharing a bag of Doritos with Jimi, "Somebody's been dognapping, and he thinks it's a job for us."

"It is a job for us," Sam favoured his brother with Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk). "These dogs have been taken from their homes, and they're found later, exsanguinated, with organs missing. It's… weird."

"So, what goes around snatching dogs, bleeding them out, and taking pieces of them?" asked Dean, not convinced. "A werewolf getting in touch with the other side of the family? A ghoul who likes something a bit gamier? A wendigo on Weight Watchers?"

"Indications are it's human intervention," Sam replied, "The cuts are straight, showing some familiarity with surgical procedures, aseptic technique. Done deliberately. It's weird."

"Of course it's weird," Dean agreed, "Anyone who'd go around hurting people's pets is weird. I've said it before, Sam, demons I get, people are just crazy."

"No, this isn't just weird weird, it's weird weird," Sam insisted. "Our kind of job weird. These have happened all over the country, that's probably why no law enforcement agency has taken an interest. You could help by looking for a pattern, here."

"He could be onto something," mused Bobby. "You think they're collecting the blood?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, "It's carefully collected, sterile venipuncture. If someone's planning to use this for blood magic…"

"Seriously nasty stuff," finished Bobby. "Just about any ritual that uses that volume of blood is guaranteed to have dishonourable intentions behind it. There are some very uncivilised Summonings that use that amount of the stuff." He took off his hat and scratched his head. "So, what are the organs for?"

"I don't know, there doesn't seem to be any pattern to it. Not like it's all hearts, or anything. There's heart and lungs, tail, nose, legs, this one, ears and pancreas. It doesn't make sense, yet. What sort of spell needs the ears and pancreas?"

"One to summon a demon that's deaf and diabetic?" beamed Dean. Bobby and Sam just rolled their eyes. "You might be a little bit impressed that I know what a pancreas is for," he muttered as Sam gave him Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Fine," he grumped, pulling the laptop towards himself, "So we've got somebody who doesn't like dogs doing their bit to lower the world's canine population. What do you want to do about it, Sam?"

"Well, if we can figure out which show will get hit next, we can try to catch whoever's doing it, then find out what they're planning, and stop it," Sam theorised, making another mark on the map. Dean peered at the list on the screen, then at the map.

"WoW," he read. He frowned. "WoW, Sam? You going all gaming geek on me? Why are you marking WoW on the map? Nerd conventions?"

"Winner of Winners, not World of Warcraft," humphed Sam. "It's the top obedience trialling prize for a show. It's like the Best in Show for the obedience dogs. In fact," he went on, "I thought we might enter Jimi, get into the thick of the action. I was going to call Ronnie, and see if she would put Joni in the obedience trial, if there is one. She's actually titled OC now."

Dean looked up from the map again. "Joni is OC?" He looked confused. "She's an Original Character? Officer Commanding? Orange Crush? Openly Curious? Oral Contraceptive?"

"He means Obedience Champion, ya idjit," Bobby facepalmed. He looked thoughtful, slightly calculating. "At the very least, she could help psyche out the opposition."

"Do we really need to enter him in a beauty contest?" queried Dean. "You remember Jimi senior's show?" He smiled a little at the memory, then shuddered. "The people were strange, Sam. They spoke a foreign language. I'm pretty sure lots of them were crazy, or possessed, or possibly both. The judge was a shark in a human costume, if her teeth were anything to judge by. There were just as many cougars as dogs there. You tried to pimp my ass to one of them…"

Bobby was studying Jimi carefully. "He got his Daddy's looks," he said, finally, "He's a damned fine animal. Excellent conformation, ideal temperament. He'd pass for a show dog. Provided he doesn't do the, you know," he waggled his fingers in front of his mouth, "Amazing Extruding Hellhound Teeth Of Damnation thing in the ring. He'd be marked down for manifestin' a mouthful of teeth like boning knives; and tearin' somebody's soul right outta their body would be sure to lose points for temperament."

"Dean could be right," Sam mused thoughtfully. "Having a dog entered would give us a lot more access to parts of the show – but Jimi's not a show dog. He probably wouldn't stand a chance."

"Ha! Like Jimi would need any help to win Awesomeness of Awesomeness, up against those primped and pampered sissy-dogs," scoffed Dean, ruffling the dog's ears.

"You sure?" Sam asked him doubtfully. "It'll take a lot of grooming to get his coat into shape..."

"You get him entered, and we'll show those girly-dogs what a real dog looks like," Dean said fervently.

"Okay then." Sam carefully kept any trace of I-Got-An-A+-In-Reverse-Psychology-101 grin off his face. "So, if we can figure out which show is likely to be next, we can be there," reasoned Sam. "If Ronnie will help, and if we can get our dogs to win, that's even better. A couple of half-Hellhound Hunters' dogs will have a better chance of facing down whatever it is that tries to come after them. Plus, we'll have a werewolf to interpret."

"This was supposed to be a Hunt worthy of my birthday," Dean practically whined, "And you want me to prance around a show ring and let some Frau Doktor Jaws-beast paw at Jimi."

"Prancing is optional, but nobody at a dog show will hold it against you," corrected Bobby, "And Jimi is, frankly, a bit of a tart for physical affection. He gets that from his human Daddy, I guess," he said mildly. "Anyway, you should feel right at home someplace that revolves around standing around looking attractive, God knows you've been doing in bars before you were of age..."

As Dean let out a squawk of protest, Sam shook his head, headed for the kitchen and made a call. Ronnie's cell wasn't answering, so he tried a second number.

When the land line did pick up, a tired-sounding voice answered it. "Yeah?"

Sam hesitated. "Um… Andrew?"

"Speaking. Sam, is that you? Sam Winchester? Hey, what you guys been up to?" Andrew asked. "You don't visit us anymore. You don't call, you don't write, not even a smoke signal…"

"Well, if you could convince Ronnie to retire completely and stop killing off all the fuglies in Oregon, maybe we'd have an excuse to swing by," Sam grinned into the phone.

"You're on your own with that one," muttered Andrew. "Last time I suggested it, she threatened to start knitting clothes for me instead. Sweaters. Mittens. Hats with pom-poms." His voice dropped to a horrified hush. "There were veiled threats about bunny patterns. Cross-eyed kitten motifs."

"I should get her to knit one for Dean's birthday," mused Sam. "Anyway, I actually called about a Hunt – we could use her expertise…" He explained briefly what he'd found, and how he thought Ronnie and Joni might be able to help. "So, is she actually there? She's not answering her cell."

He heard Andrew sigh on the end of the line. "Yeah, she's here," he answered, "But… look, I'll ask, but I don't know if she'll agree to come to the phone."

Sam heard the tone in his voice, and stiffened. "Andrew? What's wrong?"

Andrew's voice was sad. "Sam, Joni died a week ago. A wendigo. After the pyre burned down, Ronnie crawled into a bottle, and she hasn't come out yet."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Sam walked slowly back into the living room ten minutes later.

"So, are Madam Cranky and Joni the Officially Smartass on board?" asked Dean, back to sharing Doritos with Jimi.

"Not exactly," relayed Sam. "Joni's dead. Wendigo. A week ago."

Bobby's face fell.

"Balls," he sighed finally. "How's she holdin' up?"

"Not good," Sam replied. "Grief-stricken. Andrew says she's on a bender, and not looking to surface any time soon."

Dean swore. "That fucking sucks," he muttered.

"It's what happens," Bobby told them matter-of-factly. "She was old for a Hunter's dog. It's how they live, and how they die. Doin' the job."

"Kinda puts a kink in your plan for Dog Show Hellhound Domination," observed Dean, unconsciously cuddling closer to Jimi.

"Yeah, but I think I have plan B," Sam answered. "It's not ideal, but I think we can make it work, if Bobby will help modify the spell."

"Son, it takes years of training, even with a werewolf handler who can talk to the dog," Bobby shook his head. "You just can't short circuit that kind of thing. There aint no spell that'll turn Jimi into an obedience dog."

"I'm not suggesting we turn Jimi into an obedience dog," said Sam. "I'm suggesting we turn me into an obedience dog."

* * *

><p>Anonymouse did suggest that Sam was due to be transformed, so this might be his chance. What breed of dog would he be? An Otterhound, as suggested by Janie430 (in a review for 'Can We Keep Him?')? I'm open to suggestions from the depraved minds of the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse. Puli? Keeshond? Komondor? Briard? Poodle? Long-haired Chihuahua?<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

The Denizens have spoken...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

Dean sprayed a mouthful of Doritos all over the floor. Jimi left the sofa, and started eagerly hoovering them up.

"What? _What_?" he demanded, glaring at Sam. "No way. Nuh-uh. We are _not_ turning your shaggy ass into a dog, no matter how much of a little bitch you might already be. Not happening, Sam."

"Dean, can you just try to rein in that Big Brother Pitbull streak for a second, and think about this?" pleaded Sam.

"Fine." Dean paused for two seconds. "I've thought about it, and you're not doing it. End of story."

"Look, it would be a tactical advantage, having one of us on the inside, as it were," Sam tried again. "We have that grimoire from Madam Circe, and I'm pretty sure we could tweak the spell so I, kind of, stay me, inside a dog's body…" he looked to Bobby for confirmation.

"I think we could do that," Bobby said thoughtfully, "We could put a time limit on it…"

"Don't you dare help him with this crazy scheme!" Dean narrowed his eyes at Bobby.

"Somehow, we need to find out who's grabbing dogs, and why," Sam went on, exasperated. "Whoever it is, they'll be looking to grab a winning dog."

"Then they can grab Jimi," growled Dean, "And he can get his Hellhound on."

"Your brother might have a point, Dean," ventured Bobby. "A human perspective, a human mind, would be invaluable, especially as the culprit wouldn't have any idea that you were actually wise to what they're doing."

"Okay, then," Dean said grimly. "Okay. You turn me into a dog, and me and Jimi will go kick this bastard's ass."

Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. "I don't believe this," he humphed, "Why is it all right for you to be a doggy decoy, but not me?"

"Because I'm oldest, and I say so," replied Dean, as if that was the most persuasive argument in the world. "Plus, I have experience."

"You don't, you know," Sam disagreed, "Madam Circe's interrupted spell meant you ended up as a dog in a human body."

"Well, it's pretty much the same thing," opined Dean.

"No, Dean, it's not," countered Sam, "A human in a dog body could learn obedience quickly. All you learned was how to roll in dead skunk, how to eat dried out cow dicks, and that you can't actually lick your own balls."

"Valuable life lessons that may one day be extremely useful, possibly life-saving," intoned Dean. "In addition, we know what sort of dog I am. On the inside. I'm pure Rottweiler. We're naturals for this sort of thing. Fierce, loyal, strong, fearless, and smart. Mother nature's own guard dogs. Right Jimi?"

Jimi's hoovering had taken him all the way into the discarded corn chip bag. He stood up, with the bag over his head, wagged his tail, then trotted into the sofa, rebounded into the table, chased his tail around until the bag fell off, then woofed happily, sprawling at Bobby's feet with all four legs in the air and tongue hanging out in the universal canine appeal for a belly rub.

"Mother nature's original sook," muttered Bobby fondly, obligingly scratching the proffered belly. Jimi made contented panting noises.

"Yeah, well, the point is, the point _is_, we have no idea what you'd be," finished Dean, with a glare at Jimi. "Although my money would be on Poodle."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sam smiled humourlessly, "Poodles are actually very intelligent and physically courageous animals that were bred for the hunting field. I'd be better at it than you, anyway. One whiff of a bitch in heat within a ten mile radius, and you'd go all Mr Lipstick Dipstick, and be dragging your handler through a hedge."

"Your college boy brain won't mean a damned thing once you're a dog," sneered Dean, "Poodle boy."

"Well, your libido will," Sam affirmed. "If it's bad now, it'll be unstoppable once the vestigial social control you have over it as a human is removed."

"Are you saying I couldn't control myself as a dog?" demeanded Dean.

"I'm saying you couldn't control yourself if you were a bacterium," Sam shot back, "The minute you spotted another bug, you'd be whoosh, across the petri dish, and you'd be like, hey, your cilia are really cute, what's say we find a quiet corner, and swap plasmids, and you'd be bristling with pili before anyone could peer down the microscope and say holy shit, hand me the penicillin that one's going feral, there's a veritable orgy of conjugation going on here…"

"Enough!" barked Bobby, cutting off the argument. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It's not such a bad idea," he said finally, "AND I think we could do it safely. Sam has point, though, Dean – an unaltered male dog can't help having a one track mind around a bitch in heat. An obedience dog has to be able to concentrate. Given that you are, well, you, you may be pre-disposed to, er, distraction."

Dean scowled at them both. "Fine," he agreed, "Fine. You work up the spell, I'll find the pattern of the attacks, then we'll do a test run, and I will show you that a Rottweiler will do a much better job of obedience, then following up by tearing a dognapper limb from limb, than some poncing Poodle-boy who looks like a pink powder puff on paws that's just emerged from the Pretty Princess Pooch Pampering Palace. Right, J-Man?"

Hearing the tone in his Alpha's voice, Jimi made his way to Dean's side, and put a paw on his knee, whuffing happily. "That's right," Dean told him, scratching his ears, "Breed pride, fella. Rotties rule!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Sam and Bobby spent a few days working up a version of the animal transformation spell that had been aimed at Dean several years previously, while Dean pored over the map, looking for a pattern.

"The attacks have been moving north," he announced, "And I'm pretty sure the interval is right for the next one to be a week from now, which makes the next show most likely..." he consulted a Kennel Club website of show dates, "The North Dakota State Championships. So, Sam can get on with entering Jimi and me," he glared, daring his brother or Bobby to contradict him, "And we can have a practice run with your spell."

"Have you watched any of the videos I bookmarked for you?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, I had a look at 'em," said Dean dismissively.

"Dean," Sam's voice dripped suspicion, "Did you have a good look at them?"

"Yes, Sam, I did," Dean told him.

"Are you sure?" Sam persisted.

"Of course I'm sure!" Dean insisted.

"Did you really?" Sam repeated.

"Yes!" Dean asserted.

"Did you pay attention while you watched them?" Sam wanted to know.

"Jeez, I wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition," snarked Dean. "You do realise that you never actually became a lawyer, don't you? Of course I paid attention!"

"Good," smiled Sam. "So, what's the difference between 'Stay' and 'Wait'?"

"Well, one starts with s, and one starts with w," replied Dean authoritatively.

"Show me the hand signal for 'Stand'," Sam requested.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You know, it's kind of," he waved a hand around non-specifically, "Like that."

Sam fixed him with an accusing look. "That's not even the correct hand! Signals are given with the right hand, except sometimes for 'Heel'..."

Dean took another drink of beer. "Look, I watched enough," he said, "The dog has to walk around watching the handler, on the left, and do what it's told. Heel, sit, stay, go get the dumbbell, get your shaggy ass back here, walk behind me, roll over and spin around in circles..."

"Dean, that one was a dog who had an epileptic seizure during a trial!" Sam pointed out, exasperated.

"Yeah? I wondered why he didn't get a ribbon, I thought he was the best. He was definitely the most entertaining."

"I give up," muttered Sam, his shoulders drooping. "Are we good to go, Bobby?"

"Ready for ignition," confirmed Bobby, hefting an old book and an ornate knife, and checking the items he'd set out on the table. "Now, if this goes according to plan, you'll be yourselves in dog bodies, but you'll probably have certain aspects of, well, dogness that go along with the body. We don't know if you'll be able to talk to each other, or to other dogs, but you sure as hell won't be able to talk to me, though hopefully you'll still be able to understand me." He sighed. "So, shall we get this show on the road?"

"Lay it on us, Bobby," smirked Dean. "And I'm warning you, Sam, you try to sniff my ass, and I'll break your leg."

"Either of you cocks a leg on my furniture, and I'll break your neck," added Bobby, opening the book, and beginning a recitation of alternating Latin and Greek phrases.

Dean fidgeted. "Nothing's happening," he whispered sideways to Sam. "Isn't something supposed to happen?"

"I don't know," Sam hissed back, "I've never been a dog befo…"

There was a dull flash of yellow light…

"Orrrrrrf," finished Sam.

Bobby finished the spell, shut the book, and examined his handiwork. He allowed himself a brief chortle.

"Figures," he said to himself.

The two dogs looked at each other.

The Rottweiler began barking irritably. The Irish Wolfhound cocked its head, and looked bemused.

_Oh, man,_ complained Dean, _Even as a fucking dog, you're bigger than me! It's just not right! AND you STILL need a haircut!_

_Great, I understood every word of that, _humphed Sam._ Not sure if I'm really happy about it._

_You did that on purpose!_ snarled Dean.

_No I didn't!_ protested Sam. _I couldn't! It just happened!_

_I don't believe you. You're supposed to be a Poodle! A neurotic, badly coiffed Poodle! A teacup Poodle! With a pom-pom on your ass! Not a hairy sofa!__ You're not a dog, Sam, you're a Shetland pony!_

_Well, if you think it's possible to pick what breed you turn into, go right ahead,_ whuffed Sam. _Be a Great Dane. Then you'll be bigger than me._

_Fine, I will, _growled Dean. His face assumed a look of intense concentration._ I'm a Great Dane, I'm a Great Dane, I'm a Great Dane… I'm bigger than Sam, I'm a Great Dane, in fact I'm an Awesome Dane…_

"I'm warning you, Dean, you take a dump on my carpet, I will rub your nose in it," announced Bobby.

Dean looked up at him, startled, while Sam whuffed in amusement.

"So, I'm guessin' that you two idjits can understand me, then," he suggested. Both dogs nodded. "And each other?"

_Unfortunately,_ Sam huffed, rolling his eyes.

_Bitch._

_Jerk._

"Okay, I'll take that as a yes," decided Bobby. "So, let's head on outside, and see how we manage this whole being a dog thing…"

Sam let out a sharp yelp.

_Aaaaargh! Dean! What the hell? _

_Hey, I never knew how interesting you'd smell…_

_What happened to no ass-sniffing?_

_That was before I realised how interesting it would be…_

_Jesus Dean, that's all kinds of wrong… HEY! Stop it! Your nose is cold!_

"Yep, adjusting to being a dog without too much trouble at all," decided Bobby. "Come on, outside, and we'll see who can manage a passable walk at heel."

He headed outside, with Sam following him, but when he turned around he realised Dean wasn't there.

Sam barked sharply. _Dean? Dean!_

_Hang on Sam, _came the whuffing reply_, I'm just checking something… oh, yeah…_

Sam trotted back into the living room. Bobby heard him let out another yelp.

_Fuck me, Dean, I did NOT need to see that!_

As a small boy, Bobby had once asked his grandmother what one of the dogs was doing. She had euphemistically told him that Hank was 'cleaning himself', then went on to explain that only dogs needed to touch it, not little boys, because dogs were animals and little boys were humans, God's highest order of Creation, and little boys had a bath when they needed to get clean, and if a little boy did anything like that, or even showed it to anybody except Mother or the doctor, God would get angry and make it fall off and the little boy would turn into a little girl and then have to wear dresses and never go shooting or fishing with Grandpa ever again.

Dean was slouched back on one haunch, with the other leg in the air, risking God's anger.

_Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, Sammy, _he panted happily.

Bobby sighed. He fetched a bucket of water and left it just outside the door, just in case. If worst came to worst, the last thing he needed was Janis getting in whelp at her age.

* * *

><p>Incidentally, my own dog has gone into doggy day care this week, as part of a strategy to get her to calm down a bit around other dogs (her happy sociability is playing havoc with our obedience training - as of last weekend, we are officially the dunces of our class). All she seems to be doing is corrupting the other dogs…<p>

httpCOLONSLASHSLASH wwwDOT facebookDOT com/dogcentraldaycare#!SLASH photoDOT php?fbid=236813963009944&set=a.171203256237682.39943.106351929389482&type=1&theater

So, who will be the better dog? Will Sam's brain power prevail, or will Dean steal the dumbell right out from under his nose?

Sit! Stay! Read! Review! Good Denizens! Have some treats.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Dude, this is amazing!_ Dean criss-crossed the yard, his nose to the ground. _I can see the smells!_

_Yeah._ Sam scented the air. He could smell the weather, the proximity of an unwary squirrel, the familiar-strange scent that was Bobby, a blend of whisky, oil, paper and authority. It was... astonishing how much information his nose was feeding him.

_What happened to red? _Asked Dean, cocking his leg on a tree. _Everything looks kinda blue._

_Dogs__ don't see red very well,_ Sam told him, _But they have better night vision than humans._

_Cool._ Dean cocked his leg on a gate post.

_What are you doing?_ Sam wanted to know.

_Just marking out my territory,_ replied Dean, _How else am I supposed to let any passing mutts know that SQUIRREL!_ He suddenly broke off and made a mad, barking dash into the scrub. _SQUIRREL SQUIRREL SQUIRREL SQUIRREL SQUIRREL SQUIRREL!_

The unfortunate rodent ran up a tree. Dean leaped up and down, still barking.

_There! There! It's right there! You see it? It's a squirrel, Sam! There's a squirrel!_

_Yeah, good work there, Dean,_ Sam squinted up into the tree_. You have run a squirrel up a tree. Congratulations._

_Heh heh, that'll show him who's boss around here_, Dean panted happily.

When Jimi realised that his Alpha and Second had taken dog form, he didn't question it. He became extremely excited, running around in circles and yipping as though he was a pup again.

_Alpha! __Second!_ _You are like Jimi!_ He barked with a doggy grin. _Alpha! Second!_ He approached with his ears and head down, a proper show of submission.

_Hi there, Jimi,_ whuffed Sam, _Look, we just have something we have to doooeeeeaaIIIIIIE! God, what is it with Rottweilers and cold noses? Give a guy a warning!_

_Hey, J-Man,_ Dean woofed back, his own back end starting to wag.

Jimi's affection and enthusiasm were infectious. The dog exchanged congenial butt-sniffs with his Alpha, then grabbed up the rope toy, dropping into a play-bow with a cheeky growl.

_Play! __You are my Pack! Let's play!_ He yapped around his mouthful.

_Dean, we're out here to try the obedience thing…_ Sam interjected.

Both Jimi and Dean ignored him. _Play! _persisted Jimi, as Dean's back end wagged harder. _Play, Alpha! Challenge! Let's play!_

_Challenge, huh? _Dean grinned doggily. _Kind of a smartass thing to say to your Alpha…_

He darted forward and grabbed the other end of the rope, then the tug of war was on.

"Hey, knock it off!" Bobby raised his voice, "We got work to do, Dean. Dean!"

Dean and Jimi ignored him too, clearly having enormous fun, hauling at the rope, dragging each other around, jumping and wrestling. Dean finally wrenched it from Jimi, and took off, zooming around Bobby and Sam.

_You snooze, you lose! _He barked victoriously around the toy as Jimi pursued him.

_Play! We are strong, we are happy!_ woofed the dog in enjoyment, _You are my Alpha! You are my Pack! Play! Play with us, Second!_

_Dean_, Sam barked loudly, _Dean, we're meant to be practising. Dean. Dean! _As Dean ran past, Sam darted out and grabbed the trailing rope toy. When he hit the end, Dean performed an abrupt half-somersault with twist as he was pulled up short.

_Yaipe! _He stood and shook himself._ What was that for? _he growled, hackles up, feeling a strange urge to pull Sam down to the ground by the throat_, I was enjoying that!_

Sam sat and nonchalantly scratched an ear._ Work first, then play. If you're so damned good at this, now's the time to strut your stuff, Good Dog Carl._

_Buzzkill is your middle name, you know that?_ huffed Dean, slinking after Bobby as they headed for more open ground, pausing only to pee on a pile of fenders. Jimi tagged along to watch.

"Okay, now, first you have walk on the lead until we get into the ring, then I take it off, and you have to work without it," Bobby was consulting his notes. "So, put this on..."

_What? Hey!_ Dean shook his head as Bobby dropped the correction chain over it. _Hey! I don't want that! Get it off! Get it off me!_

_Dean, it's just a collar,_ Sam reassured him.

_Get it off meeeeeeeeeeee! _Dean howled piteously,_ Get it off meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

"Dean! Knock it off, ya idjit!" Bobby spoke sharply. "All dogs have to wear a collar, it's the rules." Dean whined, and dropped his tail, looking up at Bobby with big sad eyes.

_I don't want to wear a collaaaaaaaar,_ he whimpered.

"Quit your whining," Bobby grumped. "Now, I say 'Heel', and you walk along beside me, can you do that?"

_Huh, _snorted Dean derisively,_ Can I walk, he wants to know, I've only been doing it for hey, what's this? _His nose dropped to the ground_. Hey, Sam, you gotta get a sniff of this..._

"Dean! Leave it!" growled Bobby. "Heel!"

_Yeah, hang on this is, wow,_ Dean followed the scent, nose down and tail wagging, sniffing furiously, _A rabbit's been past here, and... I think a bitch has been here! Hellooooo sweetheart! Why don't I just follow this and see where you weeeEEEAAAAAAARGH!_

"Gotcha," smirked Bobby, snapping the lead onto the collar. "Now, let's try again. Heel!"

_Nooooooooooooo! _yelped Dean,_ I don't wanna heel! I gotta follow that scent! I don't wanna heel! I don't wanna heeeeeeeeeel! _He pulled furiously against the lead. _I don't wanna heel I don't wanna heel I don't wanSQUIRREL! _

He changed direction abruptly, yanking the lead out of Bobby's hand and running full tilt at another straying sciurid, barking earnestly. Jimi fell in behind him, and they chased the terrified creature up a tree.

_SQUIRREL! SQUIRREL! See the squirrel! It's a squirrel!_ barked Dean furiously.

_I see it! I see it, Alpha! _Jimi barked too, _Squirrel! I see the squirrel! Squirrel!_

"Dean! DEAN!" yelled Bobby in exasperation, "Dean! We're meant to be practising, here! There's a time limit on this spell, so get your furry ass back over here!"

_Dean! _Sam barked, _Leave the damned squirrel! You're the one who says he's going to be so much better at this than me! Leave it alone!_

_Sam, this is important! _snarled Dean, _We've found a squirrel!_

_Squirrel! It's still there, Alpha! It's still there!_ barked Jimi. _We've found a squirrel, Second!_

_Yeah, I can see that, _agreed Sam, _But that's not why we're out here being dogs. Dean!_

Bobby brought his hands to his ears. "God's tits!" he roared, "Shut up that racket you mutts!" He grabbed hold of the lead, and yanked Dean away from the tree.

_Nooooooooooooooooo!_ whined Dean, _It's a squirrel!_

_Dean, we know it's a fucking squirrel, all right? _yapped Sam irritably_, We are appraised of the squirrel's existence, location and extreme interestingness. Insofar as you have announced the presence of the squirrel, we are entirely with you. In fact anyone within about a mile should know about it by now. The whole dog thing is messing with your head, okay? You gotta get a grip bro._

Dean's top lip curled back from his canine teeth. _Don't you take that tone with me, Sam. You are Second, _he growled, with an emphasis on Sam's position in the pack structure. Jimi dropped his shoulders and head to show proper submission to his Alpha asserting his position.

"Balls," sighed Bobby, "This whole dog thing just rings bells of recognition deep down inside you, doesn't it, Dean?"

Sam whuffed in amusement. _I hope you don't expect me to do that,_ he snuffled at Dean_, I'd have to dig a hole to drop myself down lower than you._

_Oh, no problem there,_ Dean snarled cockily, _I'm sure I could cut you down to size._

_Yeah, right,_ humphed Sam. _Short stuff. Want me to go get you a fruit crate?_

With an angry growl, Dean launched himself at Sam, and the two of them rolled around, snapping and snarling, in the most interesting sparring bout they'd had for a long time.

"Stop it! Stop it! Ya pair if idjits, stop it right now!" shouted Bobby, trying to grab a tail as Jimi barked general encouragement at both participants.

_Submit! _

_Bite me!_

_With pleasure…_

_OW!_

_I'm your big brother!_

_You're an idiot! A short idiot!_

_Bitch!_

_Jerk!_

"**ENOUGH!"**

Another voice rang out, startling them out of their argument. They broke apart rolling upright as the voice called out again.

"SIT!"

Three sets of haunches hit the ground, and Bobby felt his knees wobble.

Dean curled his lip again, rumbling a warning at the challenge to his authority. _I've got a better idea, why don't you take your 'Sit' and shove it up your aAAAAIPE!_

He was grabbed by the scruff of the neck, and shaken like a naughty puppy. "ENOUGH!" came the command again. _You will listen! You will submit!_

Bobby grinned, and handed over the lead. Dean dropped his ears and head, and looked up meekly.

Ronnie definitely had her Alpha on.

* * *

><p>Dunno where she came from, it just kind of happened. Meanwhile, reviews are the Liver Treats in the Obedience Classes of Life!<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

For those who may be more recent Visitors to the Jimiverse, Ronnie is an OC who was only ever meant to be someone to annoy Dean with, but then the plot bunnies got hold of her... She's the Hunter that was adopted by Joni, one of Jimi's sisters (the other one, Janis, adopted Bobby). We first encountered Ronnie in 'Just Like You', and found out why Dean couldn't stand her in 'Can You Dig It?'. They also had a rather interesting run-in in 'Prince Charming'. Sometime after that, they ended up on friendlier terms. Kind of. She speaks Canine, on account of having a certain propensity to excessive body hair and large teeth at the full moon, although she's still just a hair's breadth shorter than Sam when she transforms (short for an Old North lycanthropic werewolf, even a female, but she claims she makes up for it by being nastier and sneakier than most males).

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

"Glad you could make it," Bobby grinned at Ronnie, as she took the lead, and hauled Dean into the correct heeling position.

Sam stared at her, fascinated. Dog senses gave him a completely different view to what Bobby could see: her scent, posture, and tone marked her out as a dominant animal, radiating confidence and self-assurance. She noticed him studying her, and gave him a smile. He found his tail starting to wag.

There was also an almost tangible air of sadness and loss clinging to her. He could almost taste it.

"So, I'm guessing that you're Sam," she said, "And that Mr Self-Control here is Dean."

_Er, yeah,_ Sam whuffed. _He said he could do the obedience better than me._

_There was a squirrel, _Dean growled mutinously, glaring sideways up at Ronnie.

_What are you doing here?_ Sam cocked his head.

"Well, Bobby called me, explained the case you're working, and asked very politely whether I might be available to lend my experience with this stuff to your next job," she told him.

"You can understand these two chuckleheads?" Bobby wanted to know.

"Oh, yes," Ronnie confirmed, "Sam just asked why I'm here." She dropped her voice to a low rumble. _Actually, his exact words were 'I got two idjits here who have no damned idea what they're doin' with this, so if you'd care to wind up your pity party any time soon, I could use some help'._

_Hmmm, as polite as ever, then,_ mused Sam.

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "I may not speak Canine," he said wryly, "But I know when I'm being ratted out."

"What? No. No! No," exclaimed Ronnie. "Or, to put it another way, yes."

_You look like shit, _commented Dean, sniffing at her_. But that's okay, because you smell really good. _

"That's because I've been on a liquid diet since… for the last week," she told him, "It also means that I'm still hungover and not in the mood to put up with any crap from you, on two legs or four." She removed the lead. "So, let's see what you can do, Lassie."

_Lassie was a __female collie,_ complained Dean.

"Played by a male dog," snapped Ronnie. "Now, sit! No, that's a slouch! Stand up! Like this. Sit!" she pushed the base of his tail down.

_Ooooh, __you grabbed my ass. And you're a pair-bonded female,_ he leered up at her. He yelped as he was rewarded with a sharp tug on the correction chain_. Do have any idea how hot it is when a woman takes charge?_ He grinned, tongue lolling.

"Do you have any idea how large a hairball I would cough up if I ate you?" she growled back.

_Oh, you shameless tease__... _Dean sniffed at her leg again._ Wow, have you rolled in something? Seriously, you smell really good._

"You're incorrigible," she muttered.

_You could always span__k me with a rolled up newspaper, _Dean suggested a little hopefully, sniffing again.

"You are a sick individual. You are supposed to be doing obedience!"

_Well, stop projecting Dominant Female so hard,_ complained Dean, eyeing her speculatively. _You're making it very difficult to concentrate. In fact, if I could just have a sniff..._

"Don't even think about it," she snarled at him. "And I warn you, I have not yet even begun to project. Don't make me project, Dean. You won't like it if I project. Not with those canine senses."

_What will happen?_ He asked curiously, trying to edge his nose behind her. _Will my brain explode?_

"Probably not – the last time I, er, projected at a Rottweiler, he just shat himself," Ronnie answered with a humourless smile. "And dogs wash themselves with their tongues, so think about that. Now, when I step off with this leg, you walk beside me. The command is 'Heel', then when we stop you sit, unless I tell you to do something else. Got it.?"

_I hear a__nd obey... Alpha. That sounds too formal. Should I call you Mistress? Command me, Mistress. Deliciously odorous Mistress..._

"Smartarse. Okay then... Heel."

_Yes Mistress.__ I'll follow that scent anywhere. Mmmmm, you're better than rabbit._

"Be quiet. Speak on command comes later."

_Yes,__ Mistress. If I'm going to call you that it would be more fun if you were wearing leatheEEEAIPE!_

"If you don't stop that, I'll go to the nearest pet warehouse, and purchase an embarrassing outfit for you to wear. Studded collar and matching harness, perhaps."

_I had no idea you were kinky, that's just so, so..._ Dean stopped, panting_. Oh. Oh. Oohhhhhh..._

_Dean? What's wrong?_ barked Sam.

_I feel kind of funny,_ Dean whimpered breathlessly, _Kind of, itchy, and jumpy..._

Sam nosed at his brother's flank. _You don't smell like anything's wrong._

Dean scampered in a circle. _I feel like... like... _He darted in and shoved his nose into Ronnie's nether regions. She swatted at him, then Dean let out a sharp bark, and jumped up against her leg. _Ohhhhh, female female female!_ He panted, eyes glazed, humping furiously.

"Aaaaargh!" Ronnie grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and pulled him off her. "Gedoudavityerbastard!" she yelled in what was presumably her native dialect.

Dean scurried around in another circle, yapping excitedly, then jumped up against the next leg, which happened to belong to Bobby. _Female female female female female_ he panted, continuing with the frantic humping.

"Git off of me, ya idjit!" demanded Bobby, slapping Dean upside the head. Dean scooted around after his own tail a couple of times, then jumped at Sam.

_FEMAAAAAAAALE! FEMALEFEMALEFEMALEFEMALE__!_

_JESUS CHRIST DEAN!_ yelped Sam, tucking his tail under and trying to scuttle away from his brother's reciprocating embrace, _Stop with the damned humping!_

_Ohhhh, the scent the scent the scent FEMAAAAAAAAALE! _Dean panted urgently.

_Get him off meeeeeeeeeeee! h_owled Sam, his eyes going wide with horror. _OhGodohGodohGod stopitstopit aaaaaargh ohGodlipstick! Make him stoooooop!_

"Oh, for fuck's sake," grumbled Ronnie, stepping behind Dean and grabbing him by the collar.

As the overwhelming aroma of Dominant Female surrounded him, Dean let out an enthusiastic bark. He turned around, anticipating a quick sniff of the intoxicating scent that was going straight from his nose to his nethers, then some satisfying humping.

_Ohhhhhh, female female female femaaaaaiIIIIIPE!_

He found himself nose-to-nose with a snarling face bristling with teeth twice as long as his own. Yellowed, two-inch canines hovered in front of his eyes, and the guttural growl an octave below his own carried a clear message.

_I am not receptive.__ Submit._

His back end suddenly collapsed of its own accord; his human mind-self had an odd moment of clarity in which to think 'Ah, so this is what is meant by bowel-watering terror'...

Satisfied that Dean was all humped out for the moment, Ronnie straightened up, letting her features reform to fully human again. "There's only one alpha male gets to sniff round me, Sunshine," she smirked, "And you aint him. Speaking of smells..." she sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. "Ew, what have you been eating? Someone needs to go onto a premium dog food diet. A gastrointestinal health kibble, perhaps. Bobby, have you got a plastic bag?"

"I'll go get the scooper," muttered Bobby.

Sam was staring again. _Wow, _he whuffed, _That's really amazing from a canine perspective. You even smell scary. Do you have any idea how intimidating you are? _

"Yep," she said smugly. "You should see me go full transformation – I bet I could get him to throw up as well."

_That was mean,_ whined Dean, head and tail drooping, _That was really scary._

"Well, it serves you right," she told him.

"You think there's any hope at all for that idjit?" asked Bobby, cleaning up Dean's little accident.

"Frankly, no," Ronnie told him, as Dean's ears drooped even further. "The overlay of a canine nature onto Dean's personality, it's a recipe for, well, I give you Exhibit A. Dogs are masters of living in the moment – natural hedonists. What you need here is a human who can pretend to be a dog, and learn this stuff with a human mind. Dean's just too good at being a dog." She eyed him critically. "Mind you, he'd probably do all right in the show ring. His conformation is good, and he gaits well. A show dog can be utterly brainless and still win, provided it looks pretty enough."

_Thank you so very much_, humphed Dean as Ronnie took the collar off him. He slunk away to where Jimi was watching. Jimi whuffed consolingly, licking his Alpha's ears affectionately.

_Sister-Alpha__ was not receptive,_ he observed sympathetically.

_You don't know the half of it, J-Man,_ sighed Dean.

"So, you want to give it a try, Sam?" Ronnie held out the collar, and Sam trotted forward.

_Okay. What do I have to do?_

"Well," she began as she slid the collar over his head, "You saw what your brother did?"

_Yeah._

"Just do the opposite of that," she grinned.

_Bitch. And bitch, _Dean barked irritably from where he lounged with Jimi, enjoying an affectionate growl-wrestle.

"Okay. I step off with this foot, and the command is 'Heel'. Whenever we stop, the default is 'Sit', unless I tell you otherwise. This signal is 'Stand'. This is 'Drop'. Got it?"

_Heel, Sit, Stand, Drop, _repeated Sam._ Let's go._

With Dean making unhelpful comments about brown-nosing sycophantic yes-men, or yes-dogs as the case may be, Sam managed an entirely adequate heeling routine, figure of eight, a retrieval of Bobby's hat, and an improvised scent discrimination with some sticks.

_That's pretty easy, really_, he commented, picking out the correct stick_, This whole dog's nose thing is just amazing, I can practically see the scent._

"We'll have to get you a dumbbell to retrieve, too," Ronnie told him. "Do you have something we can use for a hurdle, Bobby? He'll have to retrieve over a jump."

Dean and Jimi watched idly as Sam practised fetching over an improvised hurdle. They alternated between affectionate wrestling and comfortable lounging.

_What's that, kind of, scent cloud, Jimi?_ asked Dean, referring to the aura that clung to Ronnie. _I can't see it when I'm, er, Upright._

_She is sad,_ observed Jimi. _My sister left her matter. Sister-Alpha misses her._

Dean looked at Jimi._ How did you know that Joni, your sister, was... had left her matter?_

_She told me, _Jimi whuffed unconcernedly._ She protected her Hunter._

Dean stared at his dog_. She... Joni told you she was dead?_

_Of course. _Jimi cocked his head._ And our sister._

_Oh. _He was silent for a moment._ Do you... miss her?_

Jimi cocked his head the other way, as if he didn't understand the question._ She is a Hunter's dog, _he whuffed._ It is the way of things. _His eyes went back to Ronnie_. Uprights are... complicated. Your longmemory works... differently. Why be sad? My sister Waits for her Alpha, as our Dam Waits for Dam-Alpha, and as I will Wait for you when I leave my matter. _He whuffed encouragingly to his Alpha._ It is the way of things, _he repeated, as if that explained it all, licking Dean's ears reassuringly.

Dean felt a sudden stab at the matter-of-fact tone of Jimi's answer, then the dog scrambled to his feet_. Play!_ He yapped again, _Play, Alpha!_ He scurried in a circle, and returned with the bedraggled tug toy. _We are Pack! We are strong, and happy! Play_! He growled a mock-challenge, tail wagging.

_We are Pack, _agreed Dean, doggy grin in place_, And you are going down, J-Man._

They pulled the rope taut between them, spinning around like some demented canine binary star system, as Ronnie sent Sam out for another retrieval.

"Maybe we could send 'em off to join the circus," mused Bobby, "Because they... holy shit," he muttered suddenly, glancing at his watch, "Boys," he called, "I think we'd better call it a day."

"We could use some more work on the heeling," Ronnie said, "Just a few small details, things that'll matter when we're in the ring..."

"No, what I mean is, I put a time limit on this spell," Bobby explained hurriedly.

Sam's eyes widened anxiously. _Shit!_ He barked, turning to sprint for the house. _Dean! DEAN! We're just about out of time, bro, drop your game because last time_

There was a dull flash of yellow light.

"...When you turned back, you wereAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Sam's urgent call to his brother turned into a horrified shriek.

"Grrrrrr shud up Sham, we're OHFUCK!" Dean yelped, spitting out his end of the tug toy and jumping to his feet. "SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!"

"Okay, mental note to self, next time, have a pair of shorts handy when the spell is undone," muttered Sam, his face turning bright red as he edged behind Bobby.

Ronnie waved a hand airily. "I'm not interested, kiddo," she reassured him, turning to shout at Dean. "I don't know why you're bothering to hide, I have seen you naked before. Well, except for a daisy, and that didn't count."

"That was different!" griped Dean from where he had sought cover behind a small shrub. "I was under a curse!"

"To be fair about it, we have technically seen her naked," Sam pointed out.

Ronnie fixed him with a pointed stare. "Sam Winchester, I am NEVER naked," she told him, "You have merely seen me... undressed." She sauntered back towards the house. "I have suddenly remembered something extremely important that I have to do in the tray of my truck," she announced, "And it will absorb my attention completely for a few minutes."

"Come on now, you're both big boys, with nothing to be ashamed of," chortled Bobby, "Let's get back inside."

"Right," agreed Sam with a sigh, "Come on Dean, like Bobby says, we'll just go back inside, heads held high."

"And hands held low," muttered Dean, following them.

* * *

><p>Aaaaaaand a small episode of Gratuitous Winchester Nudity, because I know that the Denizens enjoy That Sort Of Thing. Denizens of the Jimiverse: they're depraved, but they get shit done.<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

So here we are, back with this one, now that the 'Pregnant Pause' plot bunny has been stomped. For the Deangirls who despaired, I shall try to get Dean back to his snarky, obnoxious, annoying self ASAP. The bunnies are quiet, at the moment - will update again as soon as the little bastards start agitating. Now Leahelisabeth wants Sam in peril - I'll see if I can get to it. The Denizens are a demanding bunch. Anything else while I'm at it? Aliens? Song and dance routines? Floristry lessons?

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><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

They spent two days trying to work out what the dognapper might be intending to do, without making any more progress.

"What do they want that much blood for?" wondered Ronnie, idly scratching Jimi's ears.

"The more I think about this, the less I like it," stated Bobby grimly. "The number of abductions, the amount of blood being collected – you could be walking into something seriously nasty. You could draw a hell of a lot of binding sigils with that much blood."

"Bobby suggested it earlier – blood, and plenty of it, is the basic requirement for the more, er, uncivilised Summonings," Sam said. "The thing is, if you want to call up something unpleasant and try to bind it, usually that demands human blood. Animal blood generally doesn't have enough mojo – not even a minor demon who was bored out of its mind would answer a summons with dog blood."

"Okay, so, if you have to summon something on a budget, can't afford the top shelf red stuff, what can you call up?" asked Dean. "Hey, J-Man!" he frowned at the dog, "What are you doing?"

Jimi gave him a doggy grin and continued to loll against Ronnie's leg. "You stopped scratching," she explained.

"You are a total whore, Jimi," Dean scolded him, as the dog regarded him unrepentantly, "An unashamed pushover who will lean against anybody for a pat and a belly rub."

"Gee, I wonder where he learned that from," mused Bobby aloud.

"Not much I know of," Sam replied, getting back to the question of the missing blood, "The whole point of evil things is that they're, well, evil. A large amount of human blood is generally acquired via murder. The commission of evil acts to get your ingredients is all part of it."

"There are a couple of very specific things that can be summoned with very specific animal blood," Bobby picked up one of his old books, "But they're barely worth the effort. A kitsune, a Japanese trickster spirit, can be invited with a small amount of fox blood, but often they're benevolent, or punish the prideful, anyone who's karmically asking for it. They're like the occult version of the whoopee cushion. A crow can be summoned with crow's blood, but you don't need much, and they impart wisdom about dealing with looming danger, or facing upcoming changes."

"Would taking the blood of top-notch dogs make it more, I dunno, summonworthy?" asked Ronnie, looking puzzled. "Is that even a word?"

"And how the missing body parts fit in, is anybody's guess," humphed Sam. "I've gone back through Bobby's stuff dealing with blood mojo, and there's nothing that gives a hint as to what somebody might be trying to do."

"I'll keep lookin'," Bobby assured them, "But you'll have to do some old-fashioned Hunting leg-work at your end when you get there. Meanwhile, you'd better get Sam and Jimi entered for their classes."

"I've been thinking it might be worthwhile entering Sam as a dual dog," Ronnie suggested. "Showing, and obedience. I've done some checking on the Irish Wolfhound breed standard. Size is important – they're trying to breed back to the really big Irish hunting dogs they're descended from. Sam's a big doggy boy, even for a wolfhound..."

"Of course he is," Dean muttered.

"...And that's deemed highly desirable in the breed," she finished, glaring at Dean. "His conformation and musculature is pretty good, he carries off the height. I think he'd be a bit of a head turner."

"He sure would," Dean commented, "People will point and laugh because you've brought a Shetland Pony to a dog show."

"What do you think, Sam?" Ronnie pointedly ignored Dean. "If you can place in a show class and obedience, it'll make you even more dognappable."

"Yeah, okay," agreed Sam, "What do I have to do?"

"Project presence – stand around looking confidently attractive, like you know that everybody's watching you and the judge just wants to take you home," she told him. "Visualise your brother in a bar, then do that."

"Just so long as I don't have to wear ribbons in my coat," Sam specified as Dean squawked in outrage.

"Nah, that's toy dogs," she told him, "We'll just need to brush your coat out. Maybe thin your ruff out a bit, it's pretty shaggy."

"Some things never change," grinned Dean. "Can you do his human self while you're at it?"

"Jerk," muttered Sam, starting up his laptop.

"Okay," he announced a short time later, "We're in. All we have to do is decide on names. First, what are we going to call Jimi? His Dad, Jimi Senior, was Winchester Ladies' Man."

"Winchester Sex God," smirked Dean, from where he was sharing yet another packet of potato chips with Jimi.

"No, no, you have to have something that sounds catchy, has a hook," Ronnie interjected. "Winchester Ladies' Man was good. Sex God is just stupid." She looked thoughtfully at Jimi. "Anyway, he's not nearly smarmy enough to be Sex God, he's too adorable."

"Winchester Absolutely Awesome," suggested Dean.

"No, no, no," Ronnie rolled her eyes, "Pick something that doesn't make him sound like a complete dick."

"Like what, smartass?" demanded Dean.

"I don't know... Winchester Iron Fist. Winchester Highwaytohell. Winchester Vee-Eight. Winchester Prime Suspect. Winchester Rambling Man. Winchester Perfect Crime. Winchester Love'emandleave'em."

"Love'emandleave'em, I like that one," mused Sam. "Kind of like you, but sounds better than Sex God."

"Winchester Ace Of Spades," decided Dean. Sam did a quick scan of existing entries, then tapped it in.

"Okay, that just leaves me."

"Winchester Little Bitch?" suggested Dean thoughtfully. "Winchester Gocryemo? Winchester Touchy Feely? Winchester Icanhassalad? Winchester Bonny Bitchface? Winchester Lettuce Leaf? Oh, oh, I got it – Winchester Chick Flick!"

"Ha ha," snarked Sam, "Don't give up your day job."

"Winchester College Boy?" posed Ronnie. "Winchester Sleek Geek?"

"Vaguely gaelic is good for a wolfhound," Bobby put in, "A bit mystical. Like, Winchester Dark Druid. Or Winchester Red Adair – vaguely Irish, but all American."

"Hmmmmm." Sam frowned at the screen, then smiled, tapping in an entry.

"There we go. Winchester Ace of Spades, in the Open Dog, Working Group, aaaaaand Winchester Blood Magic, dual entry Open Dog, Hound Group, and Obedience UDX."

"Blood Magic," chuckled Bobby, "I like it."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"You'll make somebody a great husband one day, Francis," called Dean cheerfully, watching as Sam walked through some obedience drills under Ronnie's direction. "Sit! Stay! Fetch your pay packet! Give it to me! Mow the lawn! Take the garbage out! Massage my feet! Down boy! Roll over! Beg!"

"Will you shut up, jerk!" Sam yelled back. "And for your information, 'Roll Over' is classified as a 'dead dog' and is instant disqualification."

"_Ah! Watch!"_ Ronnie snapped at him, using The Voice.

"Hey! Don't you start," grumped Sam.

"Oops. Sorry," she apologised sheepishly. "Force of habit. But you have to be able to work without being distracted. There will be plenty of distractions: bitches in heat, other males snarking at you, people trying to sabotage you…"

"Sabotage?" Sam repeated.

"Oh, yes," Ronnie told him, "Some people take this whole thing far too seriously, and will try all sorts of tricks to knobble the opposition. They'll have a bitch walk past your ring, use dog whistles, have helpers walk past with pockets full of raw meat…"

"That won't get Samantha's attention," Dean commented airily, packing another bag into the Impala, "But if somebody walks past with a pocketful of lettuce, you are so screwed."

"Can I bite him?" growled Sam.

"Not in public," sighed Ronnie regretfully.

"Just a little bit?" Sam pleaded.

"You could always piss on his boots. Feel free to keep distracting, Dean, we'll practise ignoring the unsavoury elements while we work. Now, Sam, back to the box, and remember – no anticipating…"

"That's right, Sam, back in your box," Dean gestured imperiously. Sam muttered something uncomplimentary about big brothers as he stomped back towards the rectangle marked on the ground.

"Hey, no sulky stomping," Ronnie called after him. "Eager to work and attentive to your handler, remember?"

"I hear and obey, I am yours to command, O She-Alpha," Sam dropped to his knees and began salaaming in Ronnie's general direction.

She dropped her face into her hands. "I cannot cope if you two are going to double team me, I really cannot," she sighed.

By the time Bobby was ready to doggify Sam, Dean was prancing up and down beside the makeshift ring, calling "Yoo hoo! Sammy-pup! Look what I've got! Yes! I've got some lovely bean sprouts here for you, yum yum! Ooooh, look at this, I just found a whole bottle of lilac-scented shampoo! And a director's cut DVD of 'Beaches'!"

Jimi sat watching with his sister Janis.

_Is he possessed?_ she queried, cocking her head. _Should I call a Warning to my Alpha?_

_I do not think so,_ Jim replied cautiously, sniffing carefully just to make sure. _He is at play with Second._

_This is how your pack plays?_ She regarded him dubiously, with the expression that girls have been giving their stinky brothers since brothers were invented. _Our Dam would not have tolerated such play from us as Elders_, she added, with a hint of disapproval.

_This is how they play. It is the way of things,_ Jimi humphed. _I think for some of them, their heads may become younger as their bodies become older. Uprights are… complicated._

_Uprights are complicated, _Janis agreed readily.

"Do I need to get the holy water?" asked Bobby dryly, emerging from the house and eyeing Dean's performance with an expression remarkably similar to Janis's.

"Just givin' the doggy dude some practice at ignoring distraction," explained Dean.

"Doin' a fine job, I'm sure," Bobby said, "Seeing as you could annoy for America at the next Olympics. You lot ready to go?"

"Just gotta fit Sammy's great big shaggy obedient ass into his great big shaggy obedient fur coat," Dean told him.

Fifteen minutes later, they regarded the two vehicles in the yard thoughtfully.

"It sounds like the beginning of a joke," decided Bobby. "This guy, a Rottweiler, an Irish Wolfhound and a werewolf go on a road trip. But first of all, they have to decide who's going in which car…"

"Sam's welcome to ride with me, seeing as I speak Canine," Ronnie offered.

_That might be a good idea_, Sam agreed, _More room that way. Jimi kinda likes to stretch out on the back seat, and I don't think both of us can do that._

"Sam says he thinks that might be a better arrangement, more room," Ronnie translated. Sam nodded.

"Okay, well, stay in sight," instructed Dean, letting Jimi into the Impala.

"That spell will last until midnight on the Sunday, unless you pop the emergency catch," Bobby told them as Ronnie opened the rear door of the cab for Sam to climb in, "So make sure you're indoors, with a pair of pants handy, come twelve o'clock, or if you decide to pull the pin."

Sam whuffed an acknowledgement, then the two vehicles pulled out of the yard.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Sam made himself comfortable on the blanket in the truck's back seat. It was thick, and soft, and held the remnant of a scent that his canine aspect found reassuring. _Hey, this is comfy_, he noted, settling into it.

"It was Joni's," Ronnie told him, and he saw her sad smile in the mirror. "I washed it, afterwards. But it still smells like her."

_Yeah, it does,_ he agreed, dropping his nose to the blanket. Pack, his dog brain supplied, this blanket smells of your Pack. Family. _I could sleep on this._

"You will be," she told him tartly, "You will not fit on the bed. Unless Dean gets a twin, and you share with him. I get the feeling he may kick you out."

_Yeah? Why?_ Sam asked.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, you now have a canine digestive tract," Ronnie said in a pleasant voice, "And right now, it's doing what canine digestive tracts often seem to do the minute they set foot in a vehicle."

_What? I don't… oh._ He sniffed. _I hadn't really noticed._ He sniffed again. _Oh. Is that really me?_

"Afraid so."

_Sorry. Oh, God. Er, yeah. Sorry. It is kind of… pungent. I'm used to Jimi fragrancing the car with his delicately lavender-scented farting._

"Me too," laughed Ronnie, "Joni and her Bouquet de Bum." She wrinkled her nose. "I haven't had a smell like that since Arko, it'll take some getting used to."

_Was Arko you last dog, before Joni? _asked Sam, pawing at the window switch.

"Yep," Ronnie's smile became fond, as she lowered the window a little for him. "Wildhunt Arcturus Rising. Holy crap, that dog could generate enough gas to power a small Third World nation."

_You had a Wildhunt dog?_ Sam pricked his ears up.

"I've had two," she said fondly. "Before Arko, there was Mako, Wildhunt Shark Attack. Big dose of Arcadia's bloodline, that one, a real throwback. They considered putting him down, before he chose me. Too savage. Wouldn't listen to a human." She glanced at him questioningly in the mirror. "I'm surprised you've heard of Wildhunt."

_Bobby took in a friend's dog, a Wildhunt bitch, after he died,_ Sam told her. _She was really old. She died saved Dean and me from a demon when we were kids._

Ronnie's eyebrows rose. "She didn't predecease her Hunter? That must've been bloody hard for her." She looked wistful. "Dogs are supposed to Wait for their Hunters, not the other way around. It must've been very hard, poor old thing."

Sam cocked his head. _Are Wildhunt dogs really descended from a Hellhound?_

"That's what they tell each other," Ronnie shrugged. "Having looked at Arko and Mako with wolf-eyes, I'm inclined to believe them."

_Bobby said it was just a story,_ Sam said, putting his nose to the gap in the window, _And Arcadia was probably a feral dog with a bit of wolf in her._ He panted happily. _Can you put the window down some more?_

"Maybe she was that, too," suggested Ronnie, lowering the window further. She gave him an intrigued look. "Er, having fun, there?"

_This is great! _He whuffed enthusiastically. The wind rushing past brought an amazing procession of rapid-fire scents to his nose, and it breezed through his fur, and ruffled his ears. _Seriously, this is really great!_ He pawed at the window switch again, managing to lower the window further. _All right! _He yapped happily, poking his whole head out. _Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!_

"Sam, you're blocking my mirror," she chuckled at him. He ignored her, letting his canine self enjoy the simple time-honoured pleasure of riding in the truck with his head out the window.

_Awesome! _he barked joyfully, as the breeze flapped his ears around, _This is just AWESOME! WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!_

"It could be better, you know," she told him thoughtfully.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Ah, here they come," said Dean to Jimi. Ronnie had dropped back then called him, saying she had a minor problem with stowing something, could he give her a couple of minutes…

Her truck was soon in the rear view mirror of the Impala, travelling too fast for him to pull out in front.

"What the…?" he frowned in puzzlement.

As the truck approached, Jimi's ears pricked up, then he pressed his nose to the window gap, and began barking enthusiastically.

Dean's expression of confusion only intensified as Ronnie's truck flew by, horn beeping.

Sam stood in the tray, head gazing at the road over the roof of the cab, ears and flews flapping in the wind, muzzle lifted in a howl that embodied sheer delight in life.

Dean might not have understood Canine, but right in that moment he knew exactly what Sam was saying.

_YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!_


	8. Chapter 8

tray of truck = bed. Got it. Le sigh, I'll never get a handle on Merkin English. It's hard enough to stop myself using the word 'ute', a small word for a cultural icon that has all sorts of interesting cultural baggage Down Here (go look for Kevin Bloody Wilson's song 'Rootin' in the back of the ute' on YouTube). No ute, no circle work!

Ahem. But on with our story. The plot bunnies are holding out on me. Little bastards. They're like trams, or buses. A whole bunch of them come along all at once, then... nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

She was already awake and reaching for her gun before the pounding on the door started; whoever had decided to pay a visit at... zero dark hundred, it was the middle of the frigging night, they weren't bothering with a stealthy approach...

"Watch, Joni," she said out of habit, before catching herself and sliding out of bed. The unmistakeable scent of Dean drifted to her.

She barely had the door unlocked before Dean was kicking it open, and shoving Sam into her room.

"I have decided that the bitches can bunk together," he snarled.

"Dean, what the fuck?" she demanded. "What am I supposed to do with him?"

"I don't give a damn!" Dean snapped, "Do each other's hair, have pillow fights - I refuse to be suffocated in my sleep by that, that, that hairy nerve gas factory!" He slammed the door behind him.

Sam sat shamefacedly in the middle of the room.

_I think it must be the pet mince I had for dinner,_ he apologised_, I'm not used to eating a lot of red meat, but this body loves the stuff – once I started, I couldn't stop..._

Ronnie sighed. "It's okay," she reassured him, "We'll get you some premium kibble tomorrow. I'll get the blanket."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"So, what's the plan?" asked Dean the next day over breakfast, "After shoving a cork up Sam's ass, I mean."

_I'll force one out and shoot you with it_, Sam growled quietly.

"I'd like to watch that," mused Ronnie, "He has to weigh close to 180 pounds, so it should be a pretty even match."

_Maybe I'll just eat some ball bearings, then eat some burritos,_ Sam snuffled.

"What the hell's he bitching about?" asked Dean.

"Nothing really," Ronnie told him dismissively, "He's just planning your death, in a manner that the coroner will no doubt describe as tragic, yet strangely amusing.

_Lentils, _Sam decided with a humph, _First I swallow a whole bunch of Tri-ball buckshot, then a bowl of lentils…_

"And of course, being a dog, he can't be arrested for it," she continued, "Although the court may make an order demanding that his arse be glued shut…"

"So, what do dog showing people do before a dog show?" asked Dean.

"Primp their pooches, mostly," Ronnie told him. "Brush their coats, clip their nails, clean their ears…"

"Hey, that sounds like fun," Dean said to Sam, "You can go and have a poochy pamper party. Maybe a shampoo and blow wave, get some false eyelashes put on, try out a new shade of lipstick…"

_We should stroll around town, hit the parks and cafes, make ourselves visible,_ Sam told them, ignoring his brother. _If there's an evil dognapper casing the place, we want him to notice me and Jimi._

"He says we should hang around town with him and Jimi, looking awesome, and try to attract the evil dognapper's attention," Ronnie translated.

"Hey, hanging around looking awesome is something I do in my sleep," Dean smiled easily. "I can encourage Jimi to sniff around, too, see if he picks anything up. He's got a nose for evil shit."

"I'll keep a nostril open for evil shit, too," Ronnie said.

"You can sniff out evil shit?" asked Dean.

She rolled her eyes. "Dean, technically, I _am_ evil shit, you berk."

"Oh, yeah. What about Sam?" He indicated his brother, "You think he'll be able to sniff out evil shit?"

"Well, he doesn't have any Hellhound blood," noted Ronnie thoughtfully, "But he's a Hunter, so he's probably got an instinct for evil shit."

_This nose is pretty good,_ shrugged Sam, _What does evil shit smell like?_

"Well," began Ronnie uncertainly, "It smells kind of… you know. Evil."

_Gee, that narrows it down so much, _Sam huffed, _Remind me to ask you for help next time I'm stuck with a crossword…_

A low, rumbling growl on the threshold of human hearing sounded for a few seconds. Sam found his back legs collapsing under him.

_Hey!_ He barked angrily, _No fair messing with my hind brain!_

"She got you on a leash without even putting a collar on you, Sammy," grinned Dean.

"Let us also take notice that Sam did not shit himself," Ronnie pointed out. "Speaking of leashes, we'll have to get you a respectable collar and a correction chain, Sam, and a long lead for the show ring. And that premium digestive health kibble."

"And some charcoal biscuits," suggested Dean.

"We probably should get you a stripper, too," she mused thoughtfully, eyeing Sam critically.

"A stripper?" Dean was suddenly alert. "How come the dog gets a stripper? It's not like he can appreciate it in canine form. Hell, Sam doesn't appreciate strippers in human form. How do dog strippers work, anyway? A poodle comes out to raunchy music, and they shave the pom-poms off one at a time?"

_Jerk_, yapped Sam.

"He just called me a jerk, didn't he?" smirked Dean. "If stripping poodles is what it takes, I'll support you unconditionally, little brother. Remember, if one of them gets frisky, it's not bestiality so long as you're a dog too. You need to get laid, Sam."

"No, no, no, no," scowled Ronnie, "A stripper is a comb for removing shedding coat, and thinning out the hair so it looks tidier. Does your mind ever venture above your belt, Dean? Or is the oxygen too thin for it, that high up?"

"Sure it does," Dean reassured her, grinning. "Any time I stand on my head. Which happens more frequently than you might think – just last week, there was this girl, she was a circus artist, and she had this trapeze hanging from the ceiling in her back room, and…"

Ronnie let out a small horrified shriek. "Is he always like this?" she practically wailed.

_I'm afraid so_, commiserated Sam.

They split up, Dean taking Jimi on a walking tour of purveyors of pie and coffee. There were a lot of other dog owners in town, presumably for the show. Jimi, as usual, was keen to meet and greet everybody.

"Oh, he's magnificent!" gushed a young lady with a female Rottweiler, lips like Angelina Jolie and a rack that made him think of two cantaloupe melons arguing in a lycra bag. Jimi exchanged polite sniffs with the bitch, then grinned doggily at the woman and offered a paw. "Are you in town for the show?"

"That's right. Standing around looking awesome is something we're both good at," smiled Dean.

"Hmmm, I can believe that," she commented. "I'm sure he'll do well, his musculature is outstanding. So, is he currently standing?" she asked, looking thoughtful.

"Well, right now, he's actually sitting down..." Dean pointed out.

She laughed, coquetting slightly. "No, I mean, is he standing at stud?" she clarified.

"Oh! Er, no, not right now," Dean told her. "He currently has a slight case of, er, Doingo Syndrome."

A small frown wrinkled her two perfectly shaped brows. "Oh. I've never heard of that."

"Yes, it's my fault, really," Dean explained ruefully, "I left the gate open, and he got out and made his way to the local animal shelter, where he mated with just about every female in the place, including a couple of cats, and now he has a low grade inflammation of the, er..."

"Of the doingo?" she smiled suggestively.

"That's right, he's over-worked his doingo, and the vet says he should give it a rest for a while. So, no standing at stud."

"Oh, that's a pity. I'm always on the look-out for appropriate male... talent," she sighed a little dramatically, "I suppose it's my own fault for being so choosy," she practically purred.

"I suppose it depends on what sort of talents you're interested in," he suggested, deploying the Killer Smile.

"Well, outstanding musculature is always a good place to start," she arched one brow, and put a hand on his arm. "And no nasty, lingering case of Doingo Syndrome."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_I don't like these places,_ whined Sam, _They're staffed by Creepy Insane Dog Women._

_It's easier to fit you if you're here to try things on, _Ronnie rumbled to him. They stood in the middle of a pet warehouse, with an adoring coterie of staff hovering, making 'oooh' and 'aaah' noises over Sam_. They're all your adoring fans - they all seem to want to adopt you._

_They're too intense, _Sam complained as Ronnie tried another collar on him_, And they have scary teeth..._

"That one looks good," one of the women suggested, "Not fussy, just plain and utilitarian. Just what a big boy bred for hunting should wear." Sam whined a little as the woman patted him. "Oh, aren't you a bit big to be a scaredy-cat?' she smiled at him.

"He's such a big sook of a thing," Ronnie told her, "I think the smells in here might be overwhelming him a bit. Usually, he's so friendly, he'd follow anybody home."

"Awwww, look at those big gorgeous eyes!" another Creepy Insane Dog Woman trilled, fishing in a pocket for a treat, "The judge will take one look into those eyes, and swoon!"

_Oh God, her teeth, her teeth!_ Sam whined again, his traitorous nose sniffing at the treat, _Make her turn down the teeth, is that... oh, yuck, that's dried liver! Dried liver! That's gross! That's disgusting! She's waving pieces of cow guts at me!... _before he could think, his tongue shot out of its own accord, and snuffled up the dog treat_. I'm gonna puke! That is beyond revolting! It's OH GOD THAT'S DELICIOUS!_

Sam's tail started to wag all by itself, and a happy doggy grin appeared on his face. _Ohhhhh, that is so gooooood... _he panted. He sat, and held up a paw, turning on the Sammy eyes_. Do you have any more of that?_

"Oh, he's just shy," cooed the woman, feeding him some more.

"He's adorable!" trilled another, ruffling his ears then reaching down to scratch under his chin.

_I guess a dog body this size needs the protein and the vitamin A,_ Sam chomped happily on another chunk of liver, _And it's rich in phosphorus and iron... ooooooh, that's strangely enjoyable..._

"A real gentle giant," smiled the third, offering another tidbit.

_Mmmmmm, I'll give you just fifteen minutes to stop that,_ he humphed contentedly.

"Feel free to join me at the register when you've finished being fed and petted," Ronnie snorted in amusement.

"We have bags of the liver on sale for half price today," a Creepy Insane Dog Woman told her.

_We'll take two_, whuffed Sam, nose twitching. _And a packet of pig's ears._

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Not a thing registering on the weirdometer so far," Ronnie reported later, "Unless you count your brother suddenly getting in touch with his inner carnivore and hedonist."

_It's a canine body,_ muttered Sam from around the pig's ear he was chewing on, _It's going to have certain nutritional needs that have to be met._

"I won't complain about that," Dean waved a slice of pizza dismissively, "He needs to loosen up a bit. In fact, he needs to loosen up quite a lot. Speaking of which," he looked at his watch, "I better get going."

"What? Where?" asked Ronnie.

_He'll be heading for a bar,_ Sam humphed_, He's arranged to meet a girl. _He paused, and cocked his head._ I can smell it on him._

"I have an appointment with a young lady who is very choosy about male talent," Dean smirked, picking up his jacket and keys, "Fortunately for her, the outstanding specimen of manhood Winchester Sex God is currently standing at stud."

_Told you_, Sam whuffed tersely.

"But since the bitches are bunking together, it won't be a problem," Dean told them. "I'll try to keep the noise down, but you know some of them can be quite vocal in their worship of the Living Sex God. I can't help it if she screams in ecstasy..."

Ronnie winced as he took his leave.

_I find putting your head under the pillow helps_, Sam sighed.

"What about sleeping in the truck?" she asked plaintively.

_That works too,_ he agreed, _Especially if you park it in the next county._

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean spent a pleasant couple of hours at the bar with his new acquaintance, then some even more pleasant hours afterwards with her back in his room. She patted Jimi, and didn't insist that he wait in the car, like so many of his lady acquaintances did. For that, he liked her even more.

She was vocal, but she was also enthusiastic, and might well have left any other man besides the Living Sex God with a dose of Doingo Syndrome...

When he woke up the next morning, she was gone.

So was a single strip of fur down Jimi's back, from his neck to his rump.

"Sonofabitch!" he exploded, as Jimi went through their morning greeting ritual of jumping on the bed and soliciting play-wrestling with his Alpha. He didn't seem the least bit concerned about his reverse Mohawk dogscaping.

Still cursing under his breath, Dean grabbed his phone, and dialled.

"Bobby? Yeah, it's me. We've got a bit of a problem."

* * *

><p>Reviews are Dog Treats from the Creepy Insane Dog Women of Life!<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

_*What if aliens came to earth, worked some alien mojo in order to force all humans to perform song & dance numbers as a means of expressing themselves (Bobby, Dean, and Sam are included here, of course), and Cas suddenly took up floristry as a means of finding a way to defeat the aliens? - knivespast_

_*how about some possessed gophers? - elf_

_*I really love Doggy!Sam; he's adorable and I want to rub his belly...does that sound as naughty as it does in my head? - aeicha_

_*I look forward to seeing Sammy in peril! - leahelisabeth_

You people are really, really weird, you know that?...

_*(re the de-aged! genre) Any chance you'd be tempted to dabble in that 'verse? - knivespast_

Will you people knock it off with the plot bunnies! Oh, crap, I fear you may just have gotten one pregnant...

A 'berk' is an idiot, and a 'ute' is a pickup truck, or coupe utility (search Wikipedia for 'Holden Ute' - in fact, my husband tells me I have to sell my little pedal car, and buy an HSV Maloo. *drool* He's a crossroads demon in a mansuit). Hence the grand tradition of rootin' in the back of the ute (and by 'rooting', I don't mean cheering for a sports team...) It has been implied before that Ronnie is Australian or New Zealander - when Dean first met her and called her British, Sam was worried that she was going to kill him (be warned if you ever do come visit Down Here: calling an Anglo-Australian or New Zealander English is the one truly unpardonable insult you can offer, and you may find yourself invited outdoors to discuss the matter away from breakable items), so he wasn't game to ask for clarification. Katiki suggested that Ronnie reminds her of Vala from StarGate, and she's played by Claudia Black, so I guess she could be Australian. She's probably from Queensland. They breed 'em snarky up there. Not like us down here in the south, we're all polite and pleasant. Unless you call us English. At any rate, she definitely says 'arse'. And 'tomaaRto'. And 'baaRstaRd'. She probably sits up late at night watching re-runs of 'Mad Max' on pay TV to make sure she hangs on to her accent.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

"I guess she recognised real competition when she saw it," snorted Bobby when he showed up.

"And she's deadly serious about taking the Best In Group prize," Ronnie noted. Dean decided that her expression was perilously close to a bitchface, and would've made a comment to that effect, except she'd already torn him a new one, accusing him of stupidity on an industrial scale. "What the hell he thought he was doing going to sleep and leaving his dog in the same room as a Crazy Dog Person, is anyone's guess."

_My theory is that his Downstairs Brain was hogging all the oxygenated blood,_ offered Sam from where he sat comfortably slumped with Jimi. To Dean's amazement, he managed to get his canine features to form a perfectly recognizable Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often.)

"She didn't seem evil," he mumbled in his own defence.

Ronnie's expression was disbelieving. "She was a Crazy Dog Person, Dean! A Dog Person who's Crazy! A Crazy Person obsessed with their dog! I told you, some of them take this all way too seriously!"

"What's done is done," Bobby intervened, frowning at Ronnie. "There's no point rantin' about it after the horse has bolted. Or the dog has been GT striped. We just gotta work with what we've got."

"And that's where Bobby and his tweaked spell comes in," said Dean.

Ronnie put two and two together. "It could work," she noted sourly, "A muscle-bound, brainless pretty boy. He'll own the ring."

_Let's just be glad that dog beauty pageants don't ask the contestants questions,_ commented Sam_. If you could change one thing about the world, what would it be? Oh, I'd like the UN to spend more time and effort on bringing pie to all the people of the planet, or maybe the introduction of Squirrel Chasing as an Olympic Sport..._

"Bitch. -Es," griped Dean, understanding the snide tone of Sam's rumblings. "You'll laugh out the other side of your shaggy face when I take Best In Show."

"That's the sort of self-confidence the judges like to see," twittered Ronnie, "You work it, boyfriend!"

"That's enough," said Bobby sternly, "If you guys don't have anything to report..."

_Not a thing on the evil-meter_, huffed Sam with frustration – he and Ronnie had been out and about all morning again, without picking up anything except admiring comments and cheerful allusions to putting a saddle on Sam.

"We'll get on with it, then," Bobby finished. "Oh, and no more ratting out the human in Canine," he added smugly, showing them an improvised amulet. "I wear this, I can understand you."

"You gotta take all the fun out of everything, don't you?" sighed Dean. Bobby slapped him upside the head.

When Dean was once more doggified, he trotted over to the mirror on the back of the door.

_Oh, yeah, I'm prize-winning material,_ he panted happily. _You are going down, pony-boy._

"If you can just tear yourself away from admiring the canine Adonis you see before you, we got to get you to your grooming appointment," Bobby announced, glancing at his watch, "I called 'em up on the way here..."

_What appointment?_ Dean cocked his head.

"Well, you're both being shown tomorrow, so you need to get washed," Ronnie said, "I'll deal with Sam here – a bath, and then..."

It was like a canine game of musical chairs, except the rules work like this: when a human says the word 'bath' out loud, you have to get under the nearest bed as quickly as possible.

Jimi was quickest, having had the longest practice. Dean was right behind him, being very good at being a dog, and listening to his instincts. Sam was somewhat surprised to find his body reacting without his mind-self telling it to. Unfortunately for him, the gap under the base was barely big enough to accommodate Rottweilers. It certainly wasn't big enough for Sam to get more than his head and front legs in there.

_Look, let's just discuss this rationally for a minute, _Sam reasoned, reluctantly backing out, _And think about why I don't really need a bath…_

_I don't want a baaaaaaath!_ whined Dean, claws scrabbling as Bobby grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him out, _I DON'T WANT A BAAAAAAAAAAATH!_

"Tough," grumped Bobby. "You wanna kick show dog ass, you gotta get primped, polished and prettied."

_I've seen those places, _Dean cringed,_ They wash dogs, and put ribbons in their fuuuuur! I don't want ribbons in my fuuuuuur! Don't let them wash me, Bobby, _he whimpered miserably, leaning against Bobby's leg and looking up at him with imploring eyes_, Don't let them wash me, for the love of Dog, don't let them give me a baaaaaaaath!_

"Come on, Dean, you'll enjoy it," Bobby wheedled, "Just think, women fussing over you in the spa bath, lathering you up, massaging you from head to toe – the grooming salon is called 'Doggy Style'."

_Noooooooooooooooooooooo!_ Dean threw back his head and howled in anguish.

"Dean, quit whinin' like you're a four-year-old," Bobby told him firmly, snapping a lead onto his collar. This is not a discussion. Now, you are going to be primped, mister, if I have to drag you there in a sack. There may be rolled-up newspaper involvement."

Dean visibly drooped, trailing miserably after Bobby on the end of his lead like a condemned man being led to the gallows.

_He's really not keen, is he?_ Sam commented.

"It's something deep down in a dog's psyche," Ronnie said, "There's just something about the idea of soapy water that sets off alarm bells in their hind brains. You felt it too, didn't you?"

_Yeah, I did,_ admitted Sam. _I think Dean really is just too good at being a dog. So, what are we going to do while he's getting primped?_

"Bobby's got some things he wants me to check out in a couple of his books," she answered, "It's really bugging him that he can't figure out what the dognapper is up to. I can cue up some more obedience clips for you on the laptop. And of course, you need to have your bath."

_Yeah, I've been wondering about what's going on, and I understand why it would be annoying Bo- WHAT?_ Sam's shaggy head snapped up. _I thought we'd agreed I don't need a bath!_

"No, you asserted you didn't need a bath," Ronnie corrected him. "I disagree. Although I am of course happy to hear your arguments for the negative."

Sam looked relieved. _I was nice and clean when I was transformed, and I haven't gotten dirty since then, therefore, I don't need a bath. I've been cleaning myself too. _He dropped to his haunches, and immediately began to groom carefully at one of his legs in demonstration._ See? So, a bath would be redundant. I concede that I probably need a bit of a brush, but I'm cool with that. We just don't need to go the whole, you know, warm soapy water performance. Totally unnecessary. _He found his dog-self shuddering at the very thought._ No need to add to global warming by using that amount of hot water. And how much shampoo would it take to wash a dog body of this size? Do you have any idea how much damage detergents of all sorts do to waterways? Two words for you: algal blooms. It would be intellectually illogical, and environmentally irresponsible, to give me a bath._

Ronnie nodded. "All salient points," she conceded, heading for the bathroom. "You present a sound argument."

Sam sighed in relief. _It's kind of nice to be able to discuss something rationally for a change. Usually, Dean just called me a little bitch, or Professor Francis, and refuses to listen to reason._

"There's no need to become abusive," agreed Ronnie, over the sound of running water, "Rational adults should be able to exchange points of view, and be willing to be persuaded by sound debate."

_That's exactly what I try to tell Dean, _nodded Sam,_ But once he gets an idea into his head and decides that he's right, he won't listen to rational argument. Couple that with his insanely over-protective big brother mind-set…_

"I'm not the least bit surprised to hear that," Ronnie sympathised, rolling up her sleeves and picking up a bottle. "Okay, let's go," she jerked a thumb at the bathroom.

_Sometimes, I think he doesn't realise that I'm not five years old any mo- huh? _Sam cocked his head. _What for?_

"For your bath," Ronnie told him with a smile.

_What? WHAT?_ Sam looked confused. _I thought we just agreed I don't need a bath?_

"No, I let you ramble on about why you don't want one while I got the bathroom ready," she told him pleasantly. "With Joni, I used to give her a Kong toy full of biscuits to distract her."

_No, _whuffed Sam firmly, _No, I don't need a bath. I'm not having a bath._

"You do need a bath, to make you look gorgeous," Ronnie countered. "You're showing, and you need to make a good impression in the obedience ring." She waggled the bottle. "This stuff does wonders for dark grey fur," she told him, "Really brings out the shine."

_How would you know that?_ asked Sam in reasonable triumph, _Joni was black! Aha! Got you there!_

Ronnie's smile would've looked disturbingly at home on Dean's face. "Sometimes," she smirked, "Andrew uses it on me at, ahem, That Time Of The Lunar Cycle, if we've been out for a run under the moon, and we've had a bit of fun and…"

"YAIPE!" went Sam. _Hey, I so do not want to hear about that!_

"Informed consenting Elder werewolves, and all that," Ronnie waved a hand dismissively, "So, into the bath with you."

_No,_ huffed Sam, sitting.

"Sam, you need a wash. Your human mind can over-ride the dog-instinct. You are a rational person. So, bath. Now."

_No,_ he huffed again. _And you can't make me._

Ronnie rolled her eyes. "How old are you, again?"

_Seriously, you can't make me,_ Sam repeated, a certain note of doggy satisfaction in his tone. _You're, what, five feet six, seven? I'm more than half that at the shoulder. I gotta have thirty or forty pounds on you. It's simple physics – inertia is proportional to mass. I'm totally inert._

"Five eight," Ronnie corrected calmly. _Are you this bad with a bath, Jimi?_

A pair of anxious brown eyes peered at her from under the bed. _I don't like to have a bath,_ he whined. _Alpha sits with me in the bath, and I have my toy, but I really don't like to have a bath. It's scary._

_See? Jimi agrees with me,_ Sam whuffed. _Baths are, well, kind of… scary._

"Fine," she sighed, toeing off her boots. "Jesus, Sam, you're getting the hang of this being a dog thing as time goes by, aren't you? You're just as bad as Joni," she muttered, "Put her in the tub, and you'd think she was being murdered." She shrugged out of her plaid shirt, and pulled her tee over her head. "Throw herself to a wendigo because her idiot Alpha nearly broke a leg, oh yes, did that without thinking, but ask her to sit in six inches of soapy water, and she was more irrationally frightened than a loony fundamentalist Christian at a Mardi Gras parade." She unbuckled her belt.

_I appreciate the gesture, _Sam told her,_ But just because you're willing to get into the tub with me doesn't mean I'm willing to get into the tub with you HOLY CRAP!_ he yelped, _Er, Dean leaves his underwear on…_ He scuttled around to face the wall as Ronnie removed her foundation garment.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said casually. Sam cursed his canine hearing that was able to discern the sound of a pair of panties hitting the carpet.

_Look, the whole get naked thing is not going to freak me out into flustered compliance,_ whined Sam, _Inertia, remember? Lots of mass, lots of inertia. I'm inert. Lots more inert that you._

"Definitely," agreed Ronnie pleasantly, "In both the context of classical physics, and in the context of inertia as meaning 'resistance to change'…"

There was a sense of something looming behind him…

_I've told you before, Sam, I am __never__ naked._ A large hand tipped with savage claws rested gently on the scruff of his neck. _Right now, I am merely undressed…_

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean was extremely subdued after his bath at Doggy Style – his groomer had turned out to be a matronly lady who, strangely, smelled of shoe polish and cat pee. She was gentle, and friendly, and soothing, and gave him lots of liver treats and pats, and that totally did NOT make up for the fact that he had been washed in soapy water. The anguished cry of _wrong wrong wrong! _echoed deep down in his doggy psyche.

However, he cheered up considerably when they returned to the motel.

At Dean's insistence, Bobby took a photo. As it turned out, however, nobody else ever believed that the picture hadn't been photoshopped, because hey, the idea that you'd ever get an Old North Werewolf giving you a cheerful wink and a thumbs up while washing a miserable-looking Irish Wolfhound in a bathtub, as a Rottweiler sat by and offered moral support and a soothing squeaky toy, was just ludicrous.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_I'm traumatised, _moaned Dean,_ I'll need counselling. Whoever thought that getting clean could be such a traumatic experience?_

_Tell me about it, _humphed Sam, curling into his brother and Jimi. They both found themselves wanting the security of their Pack.

_Ha! It's all right for some, _Dean grumped,_ you had a naked female washing you, and she was less than a hundred years old!_

_She wasn't naked, she was just undressed, _corrected Sam,_ And it was NOT an enjoyable experience._

_Sammy, Sammy, where did I go wrong? _sighed Dean._ You had an undressed female lathering you up, and you didn't even get lipstick? _He licked his brother's ears fondly._ I don't suppose you had a chance to, you know, have a sniff…_

_NO! _Sam yapped irritably,_ She has claws, Dean, and she most definitely did not smell in the mood for congenial butt-sniffing, or a quick spot of hind-leg humping! _

_What did she smell, like, then? _pressed Dean, coming perilously close to sounding prurient.

_She smelled of 'Hold Still Or I Will Gut You With A Single Swipe Of My Non-Dominant Hand', _Sam huffed, annoyed._ She smelled… it's hard to describe. She smelled non-receptive. Uninterested._

"Hardly surprisin', what with her being pair-bonded," commented Bobby, frowning at one of his books. "Why don't you pair get some sleep? You both got a big day tomorrow, and I could use some peace and quiet while I try to figure out what our dognapper is up to."

_Bitch,_ sighed Dean, leaning comfortably against Sam.

_Jerk,_ huffed Sam, lowering his muzzle to his paws.

The three dogs were soon asleep, curling together like a litter of puppies. Bobby wrinkled his nose; he'd feed them both some of Sam's charcoal biscuits in the morning.

He spent another couple of hours going through one last book he'd hoped might be informative, but turned up nothing. He sighed, and readied himself for bed.

Yep, the more he thought about it, the less he liked it… He was very unhappy at the idea of Dean and Sam getting themselves into something when they had no idea exactly what the danger was. He paused for a moment, then lowered himself a little stiffly to his knees by the bed, where he put his hands together and closed his eyes.

"Now I lay me down to slumber  
>With the dogs, now three in number,<br>Castiel, I pray tonight  
>You may be able to shed light<p>

Upon the case we're here to work,  
>Which has a most peculiar quirk:<br>Dog abductions, bitch and stud,  
>Then someone takes their guts and blood.<p>

Sam right now is gettin' round  
>Transformed into an Irish hound,<br>While Dean takes over Jimi's chance  
>(The boy can't keep it in his pants),<p>

They're going to use themselves as bait,  
>A strategy I really hate,<br>Especially when we've no idea  
>Exactly what we're fighting here.<p>

If you could spare a bit of time  
>To help solve this dognapping crime,<br>I'll be real grateful, 'specially when  
>I turn these idjits back again."<p>

He paused, and sighed.

"And if I die twixt twelve and seven,  
>I hope there's no dog farts in Heaven.<br>Amen."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_Dean, for crying out loud, it won't smell any different to yesterdaAAAARGH COLD NOSE! _Sam yelped, clamped his tail down, and scuttled away from Dean.

_Just checking you're still you, Sammy,_ yapped Dean cheerfully, sitting down with one leg in the air and his tongue boldly going where no man's tongue had gone before.

"You'd better behave yourself in the ring," rumbled Bobby, straightening his tie, "I'm pretty sure that tantric yoga doesn't get you any extra points." Dean suddenly stop licking his own groin, and sat up.

_Hey, does anybody else hear that?_

Three pairs of canine ears perked up, listening…

Dean and Jimi were suddenly shoving at Bobby's legs. _He's coming! He's coming!_

"What the hell are you idjits doing?" demanded Bobby, taking a step back.

There was a _flap-flap_ sound...

_Cas! You've come to visit us!_ Dean yipped joyfully, leaping to put his paws on Castiel's shoulders as the angel suddenly appeared. Castiel frowned, peering intensely at Dean.

"You are not Jimi," he announced finally, "Jimi is larger than you. You are even more inappropriately friendly than Jimi."

_It's great to see you, Cas! _Dean panted happily, kissing the angel lavishly on the nose, while his tail wagged furiously.

Castiel stared at the dog licking his face. "Bobby," he asked, "Is this a new dog? Have you acquired a successor to Rumsfeld? Is this the new Rumsfeld? He is over-excitable, and would benefit from further socialisation."

"That's Dean," Bobby explained with a sigh, "He's just taken to the whole being a dog shtick effortlessly, so he's showing you how pleased he is to see you, doggy style."

_Could you please refrain from using that expression?_ asked Sam with a wince.

_So, what are you doing here, Cas? _snuffled Dean, continuing to lick fondly at the angel's face, _Wanna come to the show with us? Check out some bitches, sniff some butt…_

"Dean, I would like you to desist at once," Castiel frowned. "While dog saliva does not actually represent a health hazard provided the dog is not carrying any disease or parasites, it has an aroma that might be described as unpleasant. Also, some of it has gone up my vessel's nose, which is quite uncomfortable."

_No problem,_ whuffed Dean equably, dropping back to his feet and nosing around under Castiel's trench coat. _Hang on, let me just check…_

Castiel's eyes widened briefly.

…_S'okay, it's definitely Cas,_ Dean grinned doggily, shoving his nose into Castiel's groin, _Oh yeah, it's definitely, definitely Cas…_

"Dean, you quit that right now!" barked Bobby sternly, grabbing Dean's collar. "We get the message, you're pleased to see Cas."

"Thank you, Bobby," Castiel actually managed to look slightly flustered. "I received your message. Danael in Reception once again praised your scansion, but asks if you would perhaps next time consider using the phrase 'dog wind' or 'dog smells'." He cocked his head. "Usually if somebody offends her with crude language, she shreds the offending prayer, threatens to quit, or announces intention to smite the offending petitioner. In the case of Dean's prayers, it's sometimes all three." The angel paused again. "She says that if you would ever like to send her a p-mail, she would be happy to engage in a discussion of prayer composition and metering with you."

_Are you here as go-between because one of the office girls upstairs has a thing for Bobby?_ Dean wanted to know, tail wagging again.

"No, I am here because Bobby asked for my assistance in determining the nature of the occult practice that you suspect is being perpetrated," Castiel replied.

"Well, thanks for turning up, I'm at a complete loss," Bobby confided, as he filled Castiel in on what they knew, and what they didn't.

_So, we suspect an attempt to summon something, but we have no idea what,_ finished Sam. _We're hoping to get ourselves, er, dognapped, so we can find out from the inside._

"I agree with Bobby, in that your plan is foolhardy," frowned Castiel, "But entirely in character for Winchesters. I cannot think of anything that large amounts of dog blood might be used for – as you have already observed, the most lowly of demons would demand a minimum of the blood of a human individual before even considering responding to a summons. The organ removal also is most puzzling." He appeared to make a decision. "I shall accompany you to the dog show, and join your effort to detect evil intent."

_Great! This is gonna be so much fun!_ Dean chased his tail a couple of times, then jumping against Castiel's leg. _Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas!_ he panted, humping frantically, _You're my friend!_

"Profound bond notwithstanding," Castiel intoned, "While I recognize that for a dog this is a play behaviour, or an expression of excitement, I find that… disconcerting."

_Oh, God, he's got lipstick…_ whined Sam, dropping to the floor and shutting his eyes, _Make him stoooooop…_

"Dean! Enough!" barked Bobby, using The Voice. Dean's rampant reciprocating stopped.

_Buzzkill, _he humphed, rolling over on his back and throwing all four legs in the air. _Hey, Cas, rub my belly!_

_I think Chuck probably just threw up a little again,_ sighed Sam.

Castiel cocked his head. "He did not," the angel told them, "But he did spray liquor all over his monitor."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_Look at me, look at me, look at me_, Dean hummed cockily as they strolled around the show grounds, _Look at me, look at me, I'm so awesome look at me, look at me, look at me, you want your bitches to have my pups, look at me, look at me, look at me…_

_Are you sure I'm not allowed to bite him? _humphed Sam irritably.

"Fraid so," Ronnie sounded regretful.

…_Look at me, look at me… while I look at you,_ Dean grinned up at Ronnie,_ You do know you look like a librarian with your hair up like that, don't you? A strict librarian, ohhhhh yeah, look at you, look at you, look at you and sniff your butt, look at you…_

"Yeah, you've only told me five times now," she rumbled.

_Do the scary growly hindbrain thing,_ begged Sam, _Make him stop._

"Not unless we're right next to a pooper scooper bucket," instructed Bobby.

_Haters gonna hate_, yipped Dean breezily, strutting along, _Look at me, look at me, look at me…_

"Dean is showing the correct attitude for an entry in the Working Group," Castiel informed them. "He should exude easy self-confidence and fearlessness, be alert but unperturbed by what goes on around him, and show a relaxed, happy disposition. The characteristic of 'presence', a sense of inviting and enjoying being the object of attention, is highly prized in show animals."

_So, what the judge is looking for, is smartass, smug show-off,_ summarised Sam. _We needn't have bothered turning him into a dog at all._

_See? Don't hate me because I'm awesome, Sammy, _Dean snuffled, nudging his brother's flank affectionately. _Look at me, look at me, everybody look at me..._

_There's so many people here, it all jumbles together, _complained Sam,_ And I still don't know what evil shit smells like._

"It'll be a while before your classes yet, we can cover more ground in more detail if we split up," suggested Bobby. The general consensus was that his suggestion was sensible, so they went three separate ways.

Castiel's meanderings took him past rows of cars and tables and tents, with dogs and handlers. He let his Grace stretch out, seeking evidence of activity either occult or dishonourable. What he found ranged from innocuously benign (an elderly lady performing a small charm to keep her oldest dog's arthritis pain at bay, a bespelled treat ball that kept a boisterous puppy far too smart for her own good entertained where conventional dog toys had failed) to the pettily dishonest (a handler giving an excitable dog a sedative preparation, another one hoping like hell that nobody figured out that his dog's markings owed more to black hair dye than selective breeding).

He wandered past an administrative building, experiencing what he recognised to be bewilderment. Sam had a point. There was a lot going on. So many dogs, so many people, so many thoughts, so many dogs who thought almost like people, so many people who thought almost like dogs, all moving around like so many motes of dust in a large airy room, impossible to track... It was overwhelming.

He paused for a moment. He was an Angel of the Lord, he told himself, a Warrior of Heaven. If there was something evil afoot here, he would find it. He had, as Dean put it crudely yet succinctly, a nose for evil shit. That was how his Father had created him. All he had to do was be calm, and have faith in his Father's work…

"Monsieur Castille?" a female voice broke into his reverie. "Excusez-moi, êtes-vous Monsieur Castille?"

"Je m'appelle Castiel," he corrected her fluently, "Je suis un ange…"

"Oh, excusez-moi, monsieur," she interrupted him anxiously, "Vraiment, je ne parle pas beaucoup de Francais." She glared at her clipboard. "Je vais le remarquer ici toute de suite, c'est 'Castiel'…"

"I am happy to speak English if you would prefer," he told her.

The rather portly lady, whose name tag identified her as Marie, looked relieved. "I am so sorry about your name," she apologised, "But here you are - I thought perhaps you were lost!"

"I am feeling lost," he confided, "And not quite certain as to where I should go to perform my task."

"Well, I can help you there!" She smiled, and took his arm. "Please come this way…" She radiated helpful confidence – everything about her announced her as A Lady Who Organised Things.

"Thank you," he told her gratefully. "There are so many dogs and handlers here today."

"We have had a wonderful response for the entries," she trilled happily, "I'm sure they'll keep you busy!"

"I look forward to my duties," he told her, sending a small prayer of thanks Heavenward for sending him a guide. He almost smiled to himself. _Oh, Father, how many times must you remind me, I need only have faith?_

She hustled him to a group of middle-aged people who all appeared to breathe a collective sigh of relief at the sight of him. "This is Monsieur Casti_el_," Marie informed them, emphasising the correct pronunciation. "He was lost, but now we've found him!"

"Enchante, Monsieur," said a dignified man with grey hair, and a small lapel pin reading PRESIDENT, as he offered a hand. Castiel shook it, as these people were clearly making an effort to be polite and respectful.

"Enchante, Mr…Upwey," he replied, plucking the man's name from this thoughts.

"Will you need a translator, Monsieur?" asked Mr Upwey. "We have two stewards who are quite fluent."

Castiel let his Grace roam briefly, and assured himself that there was nobody present in the Showgrounds who would not be able to understand English. "I am happy to use English," he repeated.

"Excellent!" Mr Upwey and the others smiled. "So, this is Sophie, and she will be your main assistant, and Nathan will be your runner…"

Castiel was slightly taken aback – he was not used to having people offer him willing help in the detection of evil. "Thank you," he said gravely, "It is very good of you to have this so promptly organised."

"Let me get this for you," Marie told him, pinning a small badge to the lapel of his trench coat. "There!" she said, with an air of satisfaction. "Now, these two will show you the way!"

"Please come this way, Monsieur Castiel," said Sophie, setting out purposefully.

Castiel followed her, marvelling at the mysteriousness of the ways in which his Father worked. He glanced down at the small badge that Marie had pinned on his coat. Upside down, he read it:

JUDGE

* * *

><p>And <em>that,<em> Readers Mine, is as close as you will _ever_ get me to writing _anything_ that might vaguely be approaching Destiel if you squint. I can't decide if it would be even worse if Castiel was a dog too. What sort of a dog would he be, anyway? A Borzoi? A Basset Hound? A Corgi? A Yorkie? They would NOT get to share a bowl of spaghetti in the fashion of Lady and The Tramp...


	11. Chapter 11

This thing is taking on a life of its own. Chapter 11, and we haven't found out what the eebil is yet! Why do these stories do this to me? Curse you plot eebil bunneeeeeeez!

*snigger snigger* Cas as Pomeranian, *snigger snigger*

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

_Look at me, look at me, helloooooo ladies, stick around, because the Living Sex God will be back to his hot human self in a day or so_, Dean panted happily, playing to the crowd, prancing on the end of his lead.

"Ronnie is right, you are incorrigible," Bobby muttered under his breath.

_I'm working the crowd, Bobby_, Dean's doggy grin was practically audible, _Charming my audience. Speaking of which... _as the judge looked his way, Dean pricked up his ears, looked earnestly intelligent, and strutted around the ring.

_Yeah, that ass looks so fine, _came a rumble from behind them,_ I haven't seen an ass that pretty since the last bitch I mated._

_Like you could see anything through those dreadlocks, Whoopi,_ huffed Dean to the Komondor.

_I like your collar,_ snuffled the Malamute in front of him as the line came to a halt, _But you know what would look really good around your neck? My jaws._

_Sorry, Balto, _grinned Dean,_ I can't hear you over the sound of my own awesome._

_Balto was a Husky! _the Malamute snapped savagely, only to be pulled up short by his horrified handler. _I will mark your den for that,_ it growled.

"Dean," muttered Bobby, "Provoking the opposition is not good sportsmanship."

_So what? I'm here to win, not get a Community Service medal,_ huffed Dean flippantly, turning back to the Komondor. _So, do you and your girlfriends braid your own hair?_

As the judging progressed and other dogs were eliminated, Bobby started to feel as though he was trapped in a canine version of WWE. The dogs strutted, posed and trash-talked, Dean enthusiastically joining in. _Do I know you?_ he asked a Doberman.

_I hardly think so, cart dog,_ the Doberman sneered abruptly in what Dean would swear was an accent. _One of your ancestors probably worked for the butcher who served my line's Alpha._

_No seriously, Shultz, I'm sure… I know!_ Dean yipped brightly, _You were in Resident Evil!_

_Brain-damaged stock-herder_, huffed the Doberman, _your Dam should have culled you._

_Friendly,_ muttered Dean. _How about you, Cujo?_ he asked the St Bernard on his other side, _You leave your brandy barrel behind? Cause I could do with a drink._

_You are funny,_ rumbled the St Bernard mildly. _I like you. I would have you join my pack. So you can be funny just for me._

_Thanks for the invite, Beethoven, _Dean breezed_, But I'm Alpha of my own pack, misfits though they are…_

_You would be Alpha, with me, _the St Bernard told him, in that deep, gentle tone_. I like you. You are beautiful. Strong, healthy, beautiful. We will den. When you become receptive, I will mate you, and you will whelp my pups. _He sniffed earnestly in Dean's direction._ Our pups will be strong, and happy. Our pack will be strong and happy. So beautiful. Den with me, beautiful bitch._

_WHAT?_ Dean let out a short yelp.

The St Bernard grinned doggily and gave him a wink. _Nah, not really my type, kiddo,_ it told him cheerfully_, I'd only squash you, and anyway, I don't like my bitches too pretty – the dog-pups have to come out looking like dog-pups. _It cocked its head at him sympathetically. _Although I'm happy to give your butt a sniff, if it would make you feel less self-conscious about looking so feminine._

_Go fall down a mountain,_ Dean growled.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_They're all looking at me_, whined Sam.

"Of course they're looking at you," Ronnie agreed, "You're a show dog. That's what show dogs are for. Looking at."

_They're __looking__ looking at me_, Sam complained.

Ronnie sighed. "Sam, they are looking looking at you because you are a magnificent specimen of dogdom," she said firmly, "But you won't do any good if you slink around the ring giving the impression that you'd rather be at the library."

_I would rather be at the library_, Sam grumped, _Or doing obedience. That's actually kinda fun._

"Well, you have to try to behave as though this is kind of fun," Ronnie insisted. "You saw your brother, channel The Inner Dean. Strut your stuff, show the world how awesome you know you are."

"_He's better at being a dog than me," _sighed Sam,_ "Let's face it, on the inside, he __is__ a Rottweiler. Fearless, loyal, devoted to his job, savage if provoked… I just feel like a, a, maybe a very large dust mop."_

Ronnie smiled at him, a hint of the one they rarely saw. "Sam, you'd make a marvellous Irish Wolfhound," she told him. "Sweet-tempered and friendly, very good with people, protective of their pack – and of course, you're a big, strong, imposing boy… they're sight hounds, seeking out the Hunt, and they're intelligent and ruthless Hunters."

Sam cocked his head; he thought he'd heard the context of the word 'hunt' incorrectly. _They hunted wolves,_ he recounted a bit uncertainly.

"They Hunted wolves. And occasionally they still do," she kept smiling. "I can vouch for that."

_What? _He took in her implication._ You mean…_

"The breed is at least two thousand years old, Sam," she said, "At least. And used to be even bigger than you. That's at least a foot taller, and more than twice the weight, of the average European wolf. Why would you need all that just to tackle an animal not much bigger than a German Shepherd?" She squatted to be at eye level with him. "You have to let the wolfhound drive for this," she rumbled, "You've been feeling the dog thing more, haven't you? It's in there. You just have to let the blood do the talking."

_That's easy for you to say,_ he griped, _I think…_

"Then stop thinking so hard," she growled, voice dropping half an octave, staring hard, "What is your canine body telling you?"

_I don't think…_

_Don't! _she snapped, nose to nose with him, _What is your nose telling you? What is your blood telling you?_

He felt his own lips draw back at the challenge in her tone and her direct stare. He found himself staring back, his hackles rising, as he really, really paid attention to what his nose was trying to tell him…

_Are you in there, Hunter?_ she spat, the word an insult, a provocation, as her own fangs descended.

He inhaled deeply, and a low growl thrummed in his chest. The murky, musky scent was redolent of deep, dark caves, savagery, fighting, and blood…

It was the scent of evil.

_I know you, wolf, _he rumbled dangerously_, I know your kind. I Hunt your kind. You are prey of my Pack._

_I know it, _she acknowledged, straightening up and letting the wolf sink, smiling down at him with a very human face, "Now get out there and show everybody else that you know it too."

Sam blinked. _I'm a wolfhound,_ he mused, _I turned into a wolfhound, because… I'm a wolfhound._

"Ah, the benefits of a higher education," muttered Ronnie snidely, but she was grinning. The PA system crackled. "That's our call," she said, "Ready to go dazzle the dog world with your awesomeness?"

He drew himself to his full height.

_Let's kick some inferior canine ass._

Every eye in the audience on him, Winchester Blood Magic lifted his head, and stepped out into the ring.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"This is… most unusual, Monsieur Castiel," said his steward nervously, not wanting to offend an internationally respected judge.

"Nonetheless, it is necessary if I am to judge these dogs," Castiel informed her.

"Of course," she smiled uncertainly, and sent the runner and another assistant to fetch the required items. A murmur of confusion went through the crowd clustered around the ring to watch the judging of the Toy Group.

After some initial concern when he realised what he'd let himself in for, he decided that it was a good strategy: lots of dogs and handlers would come to him, rather than him wandering around trying to check out all the dogs and handlers. It was efficient. However, he was uncertain as to how he was supposed to go about judging the dogs – a quick check with what Dean called Angel Vision revealed that most were in excellent health, and within the sometimes bizarre requirements set out in particular breed standards, they were all acceptable.

_How am I to rank these dogs in any order of superiority, Father?_ he sought guidance, _When each is an unique and wonderful piece of Your Creation? How do humans do it? How can dogs of such different breeds be compared to each other? What is the purpose…_

With that word it came to him. _Thank you, Father,_ he sighed gratefully. After he'd dispatched his helpers to fetch what he needed, he addressed the handlers in the class, and the audience in general.

"The group comprising Toy Dogs is diverse, including more than twenty recognised breeds," he intoned seriously. "They are of many shapes and sizes, some bred from ancient bloodlines, some bred as smaller versions of hunting dogs, to be kept as pets. And yet, they have one thing in common: they have been bred to be close companion animals.

"Since an early human first formed a tentative friendship with an inquisitive wolf, the dog has been man's companion. The dog has served man as a hunter, a herder, a guard and guardian, a beast of burden, a fellow warrior.

"And so, we may look at the dogs of the Toy or Companion Group, and wonder, what purpose could these dogs serve? I say to you, they serve the most important role, the highest purpose a dog may serve for man. That role is, loving and faithful companion. In all the roles a dog may have, he is, in the end, man's companion. And such a companion; generous of spirit, brave of heart, unconditionally loving, and faithful unto death. The relationship between a dog and a human is… a profound bond, unlike any other, not just of servant and master, but a sharing of love between two dear companions."

Some of the audience dabbed at their eyes.

"And so, I will judge these dogs on their suitability for their role, as the loving and beloved companions we know our canine best friends to be."

A round of applause, and some nose-blowing, broke out around the ring.

His runner and assistant quickly set up the items they had fetched. With great dignity and serious regard for the responsibility of his role, Castiel seated himself on the folding chair, poured himself a cup of coffee, picked up a cookie, and nodded to the steward.

"Please bring me the first entry."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_Sucks to be you, you're number two, great to be me, but you're number three_, Dean yipped to his runners-up as he set out on his victory lap. The judge had had a hard time deciding between him, the wise guy St Bernard, and a Samoyed. _You can get anti-static spray to help with that,_ he whuffed helpfully at the white dog in third place, who gave him an annoyed look.

"This dog is of excellent type, with excellent proportion and musculature," the steward read out as the audience applauded, "An economical but free-flowing gate, he displays great masculine presence and outgoing personality. The head is large and clean, with good eyes and a well-set jaw. The hind legs are very slightly bowed, and the face could more strongly reflect the animal's essential masculinity…"

_Hey, who are you calling anything except essentially masculine?_ Dean humphed.

"She's just calling it as she sees it, son," Bobby told him, grinning, "Serves you right for being such a pretty boy."

_If I find you talking to that St Bernard later, I'm going home,_ sniffed Dean. However, when he was being presented with his sash, he sat up straight, looked adorable, and offered his paw to the judge with a happy whuff. The crowd laughed as the judge shook his paw, offering congratulations.

_So, now what?_ asked Dean, basking in the admiring attention as they left the ring. _Should I hang around and sign autographs? Maybe I have fangirls who would like their butts sniffed..._

"Let's go find your brother," Bobby decided.

Dean huffed. _He should concentrate on the obedience thing, _he opined,_ Sammy just isn't that good at being a dog. He doesn't like having people stare at him; he always wanted to be normal, not do anything that made him stand out. Besides which, I'm the obvious candidate for Best in Group, Best in Show, Best in Town, Best oinState, Best in Country, Best in Planet, Best in Galaxy…_

"Don't go countin' your sashes before they're hatched, is my advice," Bobby said as they approached another ring. The audience was buzzing.

"My God, he's enormous! Is he some sort of throwback? Or did his dam mate with a draft horse?"

"Tell me about it – do you have any idea how long we've been trying to up the size? And his build! Why the hell haven't we seen this bloodline before?"

"It'll be one of those poky little places that's as picky as hell, throws up these specimens, then hogs them and won't share. It's practically criminal."

"What's his fee, do you think? It must be at least a thousand. And first pick of the litter."

The judging was in the final round: three dogs had been singled out: a Saluki, a Ridgeback, and dwarfing them both…

"Looks like he's givin' Sam the old hairy eyeball," mused Bobby.

So were the other dogs.

_What the hell do you eat?_ demanded the Ridgeback, _elephant meat?_

_Werewolves,_ Sam whuffed back calmly, _And she uses Ridgebacks as training treats._

_There's something smells very wrong with your handler,_ opined the Saluki nervously.

_That's no handler, _Sam said airily, _That's my lunch. _He regarded the Saluki hungrily. _You look very fit, some nice lean meat on you,_ he mused to himself. The Saluki let out a yelp, and his handler hissed angrily.

The judge couldn't decide. They were three excellent dogs. He circled around them again.

"Time to play dirty, Sam," Ronnie whispered.

_Exactly what I was thinking,_ he huffed back.

The judge stalked past once more. He really, really couldn't decide…

On his next circuit, Sam shamelessly deployed the Sammy Eyes.

It was low, it was mean, it was fighting dirty, it was brutally effective. The judge's face broke into a sunny smile, and he spoke with his steward.

"In first place, Winchester Blood Magic…"

Sam set off for his victory lap, practically towing Ronnie behind him.

_Go Sammy! _Dean barked happily, bouncing up and down with his tail wagging. The judge praised Sam's conformation, his conditioning, his calm and confident manner, his luxuriant coat, and his "fine strong head, with beautiful expression of the dog's intelligent nature…"

Sam offered a happy doggy grin along with his paw as the judge presented his sash.

"Oh, that's so sweet," smiled a woman in the audience, "Did you see, the one in the Working Group did exactly the same thing..."

_So, we got the double_, Dean panted happily, play-growling with Sam when he emerged from the ring. _What a shame Cas is still an angel. We could've tried for a trifecta. He'd make a great teacup poodle._

"Speaking of Feathers," mused Bobby, "We'd better find him."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Castiel sat in his chair, with a cup of coffee and a cookie, testing the companionability of each entry as a companionship lap dog. He didn't know whether it was a great success, or a terrible failure. It was certainly working to eliminate the least fit.

What he did know was that he'd never been snarled at, barked at, growled at, ignored, fled from, bitten or peed on by such a collection of spoiled, arrogant or plain psychotic little wretches…

"I'm so terribly, terribly sorry, Monsieur," the woman apologised again, retrieving her dog, a Pekinese that had sneered_ I'll give you something nice and warm to sit on your lap,_ then proceeded to do exactly that.

So, make that 'excreted on'…

"Please do not concern yourself," he assured her, "This coat is washable, and there is no harm done."

The next dog, a Chihuahua, sank its teeth into his hand.

_I'll swallow your soul! I'll swallow your soul! I'll swallow your soul!_ it shrieked at him. With a small sigh, he put two fingers to its head and exorcised it. _You can't exorcise an entire breed, foolish puppet of a demented deity,_ the demon hissed as it withdrew.

_Cookie cookie cookie cookie cookie cookie cookie cookie!_ went the next one, a Pug (whose name was Cookie), putting one foot in his groin, one in his coffee cup and two in his face in an effort to get to the cookie he was holding.

The King Charles Spaniel that followed refused to sit on his lap, but spent a good three minutes attempting to provoke one of his wings, yapping at it, growling at it, and finally jumping and dangling and swinging from it.

_You call this a lap? _griped a toy Poodle,_ because I don't. I call it a travesty. It's like sitting on a xylophone. Yes, I do happen to know what a xylophone is, pardon me for being more intelligent than an American Pitbull. Actually, I'm more intelligent than most American Humans I've met. Which isn't difficult to do, frankly. Your knees are bony. Do you have some wasting disease? What do they feed you? Don't think I'm impressed by the wings, you're not special, you were just a practice run for the real deal of Creation. Dominion over all the animals, it's enough to make you sick…_

_That smells nice,_ said a Shi-tzu, settling comfortably into his lap and eyeing the cookie. _May I have a crumb when you finish?_

_Of course, _Castiel told her, offering a small piece of cookie. The dog took it carefully, ate it, then dropped her head onto her paws with a happy sigh. _Thank you. _She looked up at him anxiously. _Are you unwell? You are a bit thin. I will warm you. _She snuggled determinedly against his legs.

_That is nice and warm, thank you,_ Castiel said.

The dog looked pleased. _I do that for my Alpha_, she said, looking to her handler, who stood watching with an adoring smile. _She gets cold. And it cheers her up. _

_Does she get sad?_ Castiel asked the dog.

_Her Mate left his matter last winter,_ the dog explained, _But he will Wait for her, as I will, so I remind her that she should be happy. _She peered up at him perceptively._ You should be happy, too, _she panted cheerfully,_ your friends are here for you, and they are watching you, and being happy._

Castiel followed the dog's glance. She was right; Bobby, Ronnie, Sam and Dean were watching him, waiting for him. And by the laughing (human, canine, or somewhere in-between) they were all doing, they looked to be extremely happy.

_Would you like to play with my ball?_ The small dog grinned up at him,_ I can fetch it, and bring it back, as many times as you like! _She settled into his lap again. _Or I can stay here, to keep your knees warm._

_What I would like you to do,_ Castiel smiled at the small fluffy face, _Is go back to your Alpha, and remind her to be happy._

Without further prompting, the small animal shot off his lap, made a beeline for her handler, and leaped for the elderly woman's arms, yipping a greeting.

Later, when presenting her with the sash for first place, Castiel was not surprised to discover that the little Shi-tzu's kennel name was Cuddles.


	12. Chapter 12

It's true. I've never met a Chihuahua that I didn't suspect of being possessed. It would explain so much about the breed. But not why they have not yet killed Paris Hilton. Maybe she is an eebil avatar for their Overmistress, and they're just keeping her warm until The Great Chihuahua can rise, take her true vessel and lay waste to the Earth. Or at least the bits where handbags, ludicrous clothing and anorexia are important. Which means I probably won't even notice... OMG what if she's already risen? PARIS HILTON IS THE GREAT CHIHUAHUA! Don't say I didn't warn you.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

_I don't wanna go in the vet teeeeeeent!_ Dean whimpered, pulling on his lead, _I don't wanna go in the vet teeeeeeent!_

_Dude, it's the rules,_ sighed Sam. On the second day of the show, Dean's behaviour for the vet check hadn't improved. _All dogs have to do the vet check thing._

"Knock it off, ya idjit!" snapped Bobby, wrestling with Dean.

_It smells baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!_ whined Dean.

_It does smell pretty damned, well, creepy,_ agreed Sam, fighting his own reluctance.

_I don't want that creepy man checking out my juuuuuuunk! _howled Dean. _It's not riiiiiiiight!_

"It's a dog thing," Ronnie told Bobby, "The smells are what does it. There's the smell of antiseptic, the smell of other dogs' apprehension and fear, and sometimes pain. The place and the vet staff have the smell all over them. All together, it can be just overwhelming to a canine nose. I start to feel dizzy, sometimes."

Dean continued to complain, whine and generally snivel as the line shuffled forward, right up to the moment Bobby unceremoniously scooped him onto the examination table.

"So, who do we have here?" asked a pleasant young brunette woman with a smile.

_I don't wanna go in the vet teeeeeeeeeeeeeoh, hello,_ sniffed Dean, suddenly quieting.

"Winchester Ace Of Spades," Bobby proffered, "For Best in Group."

"Ah, Open Dog Working Group," she nodded, picking up her stethoscope. Dean grinned at her. "Let's have a listen, then."

_Oh yeah,_ Dean panted happily, tongue lolling, _Touch me right there…_

"You're a good boy," the vet told him when she was done, "You want a liver treat?"

_No, I want you to rub my belly,_ humphed Dean, dropping onto his back with all four legs in the air. She laughingly obliged.

_Dude, those noises you're making are so disturbing, _Sam whuffed to his brother as the other vet checked him over.

"I won't ask you to get him on the table," the middle-aged man joked, checking Sam's heart. "Hey, fella, you're a big boy. What's your name?"

"Winchester Blood Magic, Sam to his friends," Ronnie smiled a little desperately, trying not to breathe through her nose

"Well, Sam, you really are a magnificent animal," the vet said appreciatively, "Open Dog Hound Group, yes? Everybody was talking about him. You'll be here for Best in Group, then. Magnificent. Has he been hunting at all?"

"He's trialling today," she answered, "UDX."

The vet's eyebrows rose. "A dual dog?" he commented. "My my my… Zandrac Hollywood Dreaming won her Open Bitch Herding Group yesterday, and she's back for UDX. Have you trialled against her before?"

"Yes," said Ronnie in a dangerously polite way, "A few times. With another dog, though."

"I'd imagined she would be a shoe-in for the dual trophy," the vet said, patting Sam, "But having seen this guy, well, I think you might just pip her for it, fella."

"That's the plan," Ronnie smiled unpleasantly.

"I look forward to seeing you in action," the vet gave Sam a liver treat, "Good luck."

Both Sam and Dean were relieved to get out of the vet check area. _God, that smelled… bad, _was all Sam could manage. _Worse than yesterday. Creepy. Wrong. Just… bad._

"The smells get worse as the show goes on," Ronnie explained. "More edgy dogs, more scary smells, and the vicious circle continues."

"So, what did the vet say that suddenly made you look like you wanted to kill something and eat it?" demanded Bobby.

"It's nothing," muttered Ronnie.

_He mentioned a dog, a bitch, who also does obedience_, Sam piped up. _What's wrong with the dog?_

"Her name is Tara," Ronnie growled, "And she's a wonderful dog. It's her handler I'd cheerfully salt and burn."

_Oh. One of the people who takes it all far too seriously?_ queried Sam.

"Right through 'Far Too Seriously' and out the other side of 'Ridiculous'," grumped Ronnie. "If we meet her, don't accept any treats, don't let her pat you, and ignore what she'll have in her pockets."

"What will she have in her pockets?" asked Bobby a little reluctantly.

"Anything she thinks will distract other dogs," Ronnie told them, "Up to and including pee from a bitch in heat. A quick squirt on the ground will have a male dog unable to pay attention to anything else, and even a female will want to stop to check it out. Her daughter will be walking around with pee too, probably, and pockets full of raw liver, trying to find a place upwind of the ring. Oh, and blowing on a dog whistle, probably." She frowned. "I hate that bit. It gives me a headache."

"Ah, an enthusiastic student of the School Of Dirty Tricks," nodded Bobby grimly.

_Majoring in Foul Play_, growled Sam. _That's just… a bit evil. With a small 'e', but evil nonetheless. __Well, forewarned is forearmed._

Bobby checked his watch. "They'll be starting the obedience soon," he said. "We'll come and watch."

_For moral support,_ added Dean. _And the raw liver, and bitch pee…_

"Are we expecting Feathers?" Bobby ignored Dean with a roll of his eyes.

_He said he had more judging duties to attend to,_ Dean went on, _And he'll meet up with us afterwards._

The PA system hissed, and announced the call for the obedience trialling to begin.

_Let's go defeat us something evil_, whuffed Sam, grinning up at Ronnie.

"Funnily enough, that's pretty much what Joni used to say," she smiled back.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Veronica, how wonderful to see you again!" a voice dripping insincere pleasantry called to them.

"Hello, Patricia," Ronnie answered through gritted teeth. "Congratulations on your show win yesterday, well done Tara." The smile she turned on the feminine-faced German Shepherd was much more friendly, and the dog wagged its tail.

"And who is this?" The woman shot a saccharine smile at Sam. "A little bigger than Joni. Where is Champion Girl, anyway?" The sickly sweet expression took on a hint of viciousness.

"Dead," snapped Ronnie. "This is Sam."

"Oh. Oh, my dear, I am so sorry to hear that," twittered Patricia, sounding anything but. "He is quite a big boy, isn't he?" the other handler cooed venomously, "You could almost ride him around the ring! He's practically too big even to qualify as a dog!"

"The judge who placed him first in his class yesterday didn't think so," Ronnie said casually.

Patricia's eyes took on a hard glint. "Oh, a dual dog, this time?" she commented. "How… ambitious of you."

"Not really," Ronnie's voice was ice, "As ever, I'm just doing it for the fun."

_Hello._ The canine whuff broke into his thoughts as Sam watched the conversation, the verbal barbs almost visible to canine senses.

_Oh, er, hello_, he answered distractedly.

He found that Tara was watching him keenly. _You are not the dog she travels with_, the bitch observed. _Where is the bitch of the Blood?_

_The bitch of the…? Oh, Joni. The Hunter's dog, _Sam worked out.

_Yes, the Hunter's dog,_ confirmed Tara. _She carries the Blood of the Pit in her line. Where is she?_

_Joni has… left her matter,_ Sam told her.

Tara's head drooped a little. _No wonder her Alpha is so sad,_ she sighed. She peered at Sam again. _You are a Hunting dog. _It was not a question.

_Uh, yeah, I guess I am, _he agreed. _I'm here with, er, Joni's Alpha, and my brother, and Joni's litter-brother too. Something bad is going to happen, and we're trying to find it, and stop it._

A steward beckoned, and Patricia called Tara to heel.

_Success,_ the dog whuffed to him,_ Work well!_

_Er yeah, you work well too,_ he gruffed after her.

They sat outside the ring, and watched Tara work.

_She's good,_ Sam admitted.

"She's fucking fantastic", Ronnie corrected him. "You're going to have to work sharp and neat to beat her."

Patricia and Tara left the ring, looking pleased, as Ronnie and Sam were called.

"I'm sure he'll do just wonderfully, my dear," the woman trilled.

Sam fixed her with a determined stare._ You better believe it, lady_, he growled.

"Perhaps his manners outside the ring could use some work," Patricia sniffed.

"You think he's bad, you should see his brother," smiled Ronnie.

At that moment there was a ruckus on the other side of the ring. Another dog, a Rottweiler, had slipped his collar, and made a beeline for a young woman who did in fact look quite similar to Patricia. He did not exactly attack her – he just seemed extremely interested in her coat, tearing at the pockets, while the girl screamed and batted at him. All that seemed to do was encourage the animal, who began enthusiastically humping her leg.

When a couple of show officials came to her aid, they found that she had a handful of raw mince on one pocket, and a small bottle of a suspicious yellow liquid in the other. She was politely and firmly asked to leave the trialling area.

The dog's owner showed up then, an older man, apologising profusely for his dog's 'idjit' behaviour. The officials chalked it up to a case of excitable show-dog.

The judge in the UDX obedience ring was most impressed that the Irish Wolfhound going through his paces just then paid absolutely no attention to the ruckus happening just on the other side of the rope barrier, so she marked him high for focus.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Eight dogs were in line for the Down Stay, one of the spectator highlights for the highest level of competition. The handlers left their dogs, and filed away silently, out of sight behind an administration building.

_How's he doing?_ Dean asked anxiously.

"He was good, damned good," Bobby ventured, "But I gotta say, that Shepherd was highly polished. Clearly done it before. One of Sam's retrieves was a bit shaky – he's never done this on ground that's had so many dog over it."

At the three minute mark, a Border Collie got up, moved forward a few steps, then sat, to the accompanying groans of the crowd.

"that dog was twitchy all the way through," noted Bobby, taking in the settled poise of Tara, lying next in line to Sam. "She's solid as a rock though." He sighed. "I hate to say it, but I think she's got your brother beat."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Sam concentrated on not fidgeting. Fidgeting would lose points, and he couldn't afford that. Sitting still wasn't hard for him when he was human, but in a canine body, it took concentration to sit and do nothing…

_What are you Hunting?_ Tara whuffed to him quietly.

Sam let out a huff. _We're not sure,_ he told her. _You know about Hunting?_

_My litter-sister was mated by a Hunter's dog, _she told him proudly,_ She whelped his pups, four strong, happy dog-pups. Hunters' dogs, all of them. Like the bitch of the Blood, the Wolfwoman's companion. Two have left their matter protecting their Hunters._

_Somebody is…__ taking dogs, _Sam whuffed back._ Show winners. Obedience winners. Killing them._ _That's why I'm here. If I can win, hopefully they will come and get me, and I can find out what they're doing, and stop it._

_You offer yourself as prey for the Hunt?_ She seemed worried.

_It's okay, I do it all the time. My brother is way worse than me,_ Sam reassured her. _But I think you've won this one. You worked really well. I think I screwed up one of my retrievals. There were so many scents on the ground…_

She looked at him carefully. The crowd held its breath; dogs eyeballing each other was often a prelude to one of them breaking from the Stay command._ You are not a Hunter's….dog, _she decided.

_Not exactly, _Sam agreed sheepishly,_ But I am Hunting._

Tara subsided into silence.

The minutes ticked down. The handlers filed back into the ring, and were instructed to return to their dogs.

With barely five feet between them, Tara got to her feet, and moved forward to meet her handler. A ripple of disappointment ran through the audience.

_What happened? What happened?_ demanded Dean.

"I don't believe it," muttered Bobby, "Tara just got up and went to meet her handler. She flunked the Down Stay. That's thirty points gone. She won't even place, now."

Patricia's face was livid as the competitors filed out of the ring to polite applause. She didn't pause long enough for Ronnie to do anything but smile pleasantly at her. Tara turned to give Sam a final whuff.

_Success,_ she called to him, _Bring down your prey._

_Work well, _he called after her.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Sam was receiving his sash for placing first in his obedience class while the Best In Group – Working was judged. Dean was singled out, along with another Rottweiler, a bitch, and a St Bernard puppy.

_My sire says you're too pretty to be a dog,_ yapped the puppy.

_Er, excuse me__?_ asked Dean.

_My sire says y__ou have the ass of a bitch,_ the puppy went on._ My sire says he'd mate with you, because you're so pretty. My sire says he's prepared to fight his way through the pack that must gather whenever you come into heat. My sire says you're funny. I don't think you're funny. Although you do smell funny. _The pup paused and sniffed. _My sire said you smelled funny too. My sire says he'd squash you if he tried to mate you. That might be funny. My sire thinks it would be funny, too. My sire says you could be squashed absolutely flat, and you'd still get up and run backwards at him. My sire says you'd only have bitch-pups, because something as pretty as you could not possibly sire dog-pups. My sire says yours are just stuck on. My sire says…_

_Does your sire say anything about what happens to puppies who won't shut up?_ Dean whuffed.

…_Says that only bitches… what? _the puppy stopped yapping.

_Puppies who won't stop yapping,_ Dean intoned seriously, _Get fed to the Giant._

The pup paused, and followed Dean's line of sight…

To where Ronnie and Sam had joined Bobby in the audience.

The puppy let out a piercing yelp, and the handler could do nothing to settle the young animal.

Dean won Best in Group.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Sam's ruthless deployment of High Beam Sammy Eyes saw him take out Best in Group – Hounds.

_I don't believe you told a poor little puppy that I was going to eat it! _he grumped at Dean, emerging from the ring with his sash.

_Hey, he was driving me nuts!_ Dean complained, _My dad says this, my dad says that…_

"If you had a black moustache, Dean, you'd be twirlin' it about now," sighed Bobby. "Still, your hustling has paid off. We got two Best in Group dogs, and Sam will get the dual dog trophy, it doesn't get any better than that."

_Sure it does, _Dean grinned doggily, _I will shortly be taking out Best in Show._

_Yeah, right,_ Sam humphed, _You're not going to psyche me out by threatening to feed me to myself._

"Whatever happened to 'I don't like people looking at me'?" asked Ronnie in amusement.

_Maybe I've just discovered my own inner awesomeness,_ shrugged Sam. _Or maybe I just can't stand Dean's arrogant assumption that he's going to win._

_It's not arrogance if it's true,_ Dean told him, _And false modesty sucks._

_Jerk._

_Bitch._

_No, really, my handler says, you're a jerk. My handler says, your lips are so pouty, you could do soft porn for trout. My handler says, you're so cocky, you could work a second job as a rooster. My handler says, you're so vain, you probably think this song is about you. My handler says…_

Twenty minutes later, they were still sniping as they entered the ring for the Best in Show round.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The senior judge homed in on four dogs initially.

After another examination, he excused Tara. Ronnie could barely keep the smug smile from her face as she gave Patricia a small wave.

After several more circuits, he excused Cuddles. The little dog trotted out happily with her smiling owner.

That left him with Dean and Sam. And that's where he got stuck.

He umm-ed and ah-ed, and scratched his head, consulted his clipboard, sent them out for another lap, another examination, and finally spoke to the President of the committee. He couldn't separate them.

The President suggested getting a second opinion from a fellow judge. He recommended one, who'd had astonishing success and set the audience buzzing with his unconventional yet effective methods.

Monsieur Castiel was invited to help with the judging.

He cocked his head, examined both dogs, and watched them closely as they worked the ring.

_Pick me, Cas, pick me! _whuffed Dean,_ You know I'm your favourite!_

_Don't be ridiculous, _humphed Sam_, Cas is an angel, a vituous being, who would never play favourites. Would you, Cas?_

More conferring followed.

A decision was reached. The steward called for the microphone.

"The trophy for Best In Show is awarded to… Winchester Ace Of Spades."

_Yes! _barked Dean in naked triumph, dancing on the end of his lead for a victory lap, _I win I win I win I'm best! I'm awesome, I'm awesome, Just check it out, I'm awesome…_

_You're a narcissistic pain in the ass, _yapped Sam.

_You're just jealous because you don't have a profound bond, Sammy,_ Dean grinned doggily, _and Cas knows real quality when he sees it._

They were presented with their sashes for Best In Show and Runner-Up, both politely shaking hands with the senior judge and the President, while Dean kept up his running monologue of self-congratulation all the way back to the car and the truck.

_Can I bite him now?_ asked Sam wistfully.

"Go ahead," Ronnie stepped aside.

Sam sank his teeth into the scruff of Dean's neck.

_Ow! Hey! _Dean snarled briefly. _Envy is a deadly sin, Sam, how many times do I have to say it? It's not my fault I'm so much more awesome than you, even in dog form…_

"You are not any more awesome than your brother, Dean," said Castiel seriously, appearing behind them. "The judge was correct in that he could not separate the two of you."

_Doesn't matter, you did! _panted Dean, _'Cause Cas likes me best! 'Cause Cas is my friend! Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas! _Dean chased his tail around, then began to hump against Castiel's leg.

"Get off him, ya idjit!" Bobby grabbed Dean by the scruff and yanked him away from the hapless angel.

"The reason I suggested he award Best In Show to Dean was to make sure that Dean was equally desirable as an abductible specimen," explained the angel. "Sam has clearly shown himself to be an outstanding dog, with a win in the highest level of obedience competition and a Best in Group. This way, Dean appears to be as outstanding as his brother."

_Cas Cas Cas Ca-… huh?_ Dean gave up his frantic copulatory attempts with Castiel's kneecap. _No, no, you picked me, because you liked me best!_

_He picked you to give us the best chance of getting you dognapped, bro,_ grinned Sam.

"It was a purely strategic decision, Dean," smiled Ronnie.

Dean turned wide brown adoring eyes on the angel. _But… you like me best, right? I'm your favourite?_

"I am and Angel of The Lord, "intoned Castiel, "And should know better than to play favourites."

_Told you, _huffed Sam, a little smugly.

Castiel turned to Bobby. "I have seen many dogs and handlers during this show, but have not detected any malevolent intent," he sounded almost apologetic.

"It's okay, thanks for the help – we've got what we came here for," Bobby told him.

"If you require assistance once you identify the problem, let me know," the angel finished.

"Will do," Bobby assured him.

"Goodbye, then," Castiel said, disappearing in a flapping of trench coat.

_Bye, Cas,_ humphed Dean, still a little disappointed.

_So, what now?_ asked Sam.

"We celebrate, openly display the spoils, and leave you where you can be easily dognapped," replied Bobby. "Pizza sound good?"

"Pizza sounds great," confirmed Ronnie.

_Pizza sounds awesome! _agreed Dean.

"Not for you," Ronnie told him, "You two will be outside, in the truck, waiting to be dognapped."

_What? That's cruelty to animals!_ Dean yapped furiously. _I refuse to be dognapped on an empty stomach!_

"I'll leave you a bowl of kibble then," Ronnie smiled sweetly. "And some charcoal biscuits."

_Bitch,_ he muttered.

"Sam?" said Ronnie.

_Yeah? _responded Sam.

"You can bite him again, if you like."

_Excellent!_

The following skirmish drew plenty of attention. Mostly, it was Crazy Dog Show People, wondering who on Earth would let their dogs, the Best In Show and Runner Up, for crying out loud, scrap like mongrels, and just stand there, laughing?

One pair of eyes didn't laugh. They just paid close attention, and jotted down a licence plate, not believing this stroke of luck. Both of them were from the one kennel, and travelling in the one truck. That would be… convenient.

* * *

><p>Oh my God, that's the biggest one I've seen so far all year! (as a student from one of Sam's lecture groups once remarked).<p>

Evil is watching! But isn't it always? It's the Winchesters. Who is it? What is it? OMG IS IT THE GREAT CHIHUAHUA? Flee, Sam and Dean, FLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!


	13. Chapter 13

Oh noes! Reviews is playing up on FFN again. Give me reviews, or give me... no, just give me reviews.

Having read a few fanfics that haven't had many reviews for the most recent chapter, I believe that the convention is to throw a hissy fit, and tell you that if I don't get reviews I won't write any more.

So.

Give me reviews, or I won't write any more! *pouts self-indulgently*

... *stamps foot*

... *holds breath*

... *turns blue*

That's not really helping is it?

The plot bunnies don't think so either - one cheeky little bugger has just informed me that the only way to get more reviews is to write more chapters. The sheer cheek of these creatures...

Ahem, so some Sam In Peril for Leahelisabeth. She's very demanding - she is a Denizen, after all. Possibly a plot bunny in disguise.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

_Dean, we're supposed to be sitting out here looking dognappable, not giving the impression that you have some form of recurring quadriplegia. _

They were sitting in the bed of Ronnie's truck, looking adorable. They were definitely attracting attention. And every time they did, Dean wagged his tail, whuffed imploringly, and rolled onto his back with his legs in the air.

_Ohhhh yeah, right there_, Dean hummed contentedly, tongue lolling, as yet another young lady cooed over him and scratched his belly. _You ought to try this, Sam, it's better than licking your own balls!_

_Jerk._ Sam contented himself with looking adorable, and willing to follow any passing practitioner of dark occult arts home. They'd been sitting looking friendly and dognappable for a couple of hours, and while a lot of people from the dog show had passed them, nobody had tried to do anything more evil that pet them, talk to them, or, in the case of one small child, share his ice cream.

_Hello, ladies, how's about you duck into the bar, and buy a guy a beer?_ Dean put on his most adorable doggy grin, cocked his head and whuffed cheerfully as another group of young women passing by.

"Oh, they're both so gorgeous!" trilled one of the women, approaching the truck.

_Okay, so no beer, then_, humphed Dean. _Still, while you're here..._ he dropped to the bed of the truck, all four legs in the air, tongue lolling. _Belly rubbers, please to be forming an orderly queue..._

The adoring passers-by thinned out as the evening wore on.

"Hello, you two," a pleasant male voice said, "What are you doing out here by yourselves?"

_Look out, Sam! _whined Dean,_ It's_ _Dr Coldfinger Junkgrabber, vet, and all around animal-molesting pervert. _He sneezed a doggy sneeze._ He smells like an explosion in a Lysol factory._

_Shut up and look cute, Dean_, whuffed Sam, cocking his head, giving a doggy grin, _Our dognapper could be watching._ He whuffed again, and offered a paw to shake.

The vet grinned. "You are a magnificent pair, aren't you?" he told them.

_I can do cute,_ panted Dean, rolling over again, _Now, rub the belly, but if you touch my junk, I'll tear your arm off._

The man laughed. "What a big tough Rottie you turned out to be," he mused, expertly rubbing Dean's belly as Dean squirmed in pleasure, "What do they call you - Ace? I'll bet it's Ace."

_Keep doing that and you can call me whatever you like,_ Dean panted happily, one back leg twitching.

"And you're the original gentle giant, aren't you, Sam?"

Sam whined a little, and turned on the Sammy Eyes.

The man's face became concerned. "A fine pair of animals like you shouldn't be outside at this hour, in the cold, by yourselves," he told them, "You come with me."

_What?_ Dean leapt to his feet.

_He's is a vet, _Sam realised,_ In lots of places, a vet has the authority to order the impounding of animals he suspects are not being treated properly. He's within his professional responsibilities and obligations. Come on, we'll be easier to snatch from the local dog shelter anyway. Less public._

_Let's go, then, _whuffed Dean. Both of them jumped out of the truck, and sat in front of him, looking attentive.

"What good boys you are," the vet smiled again, "We'll get you somewhere nice and warm, okay?"

They followed him closely for half a block, to a small alley, where a nondescript van was parked. He opened the rear doors.

"Hop in, boys," he gestured inside.

_Since when does a vet moonlight as a renovator? Dean _grumped._ It smells of wet carpet_ in here. _Wet carpet after it's been used as a toilet by zombie ghoul skunks. With diarrhoea._

_No, Dean,_ Sam frowned, nose twitching, _That's the smell of evil. _

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Did I mention that I'm not happy with this whole 'give us a head start' plan?" griped Ronnie as Bobby peered through a gap in the shutter. "I'm pretty sure I mentioned that I'm not happy with it." Beside her, Jimi whined. "And Jimi's not happy with it either. We outnumber you, at least six legs to two."

"Boy's got a point," sighed Bobby, "We don't give the culprit a chance to get started on whatever they're doing, we can't find out what it is."

"I just can't work out whether Dean is an idiot, or suicidal. Or a suicidal idiot. Bent on suicide by idiocy." She started pacing again.

"Quit twitchin' – you got fleas or something?" She bared her teeth briefly, and subsided. "Hang on... "

"What? What?" Ronnie was almost barking.

"False alarm," Bobby relayed, "Just Dean makin' some more special lady friends." Ronnie muttered something uncomplimentary about men, one particular design flaw amongst a multitude, and the possible global merits of a worldwide campaign to eradicate testicles.

"Where will babies come from then?" Bobby couldn't help needling her, grinning to himself. "Do would-be parents have to plant cabbages, or make stork nesting boxes?"

"We'll import them from China. Or have them made in sweatshops in Korea. Or learn parthenogenesis. Anyway, storks build large, open nests in waterside vegetation, so you'd have to build platforms, not boxes."

"Your way don't sound like nearly as much fun," Bobby chortled, "And you've been hangin' around Sam too much."

"God invented battery-powered toys for a reason," Ronnie grumped, "And you've been hanging around Dean too much."

"Fine, but if you're goin' to eradicate testicles, the menfolk of the world reserve the right to eradicate female hormones," he told her reasonably, deriving a small amused satisfaction from her eye-roll. "Hold on... oh, it's the vet." He kept peering. "Balls," he went on, "Looks like he's impounding them." He sighed in annoyance. "Well, it's a risk we ran, leaving 'em out there alone."

"Damn," muttered Ronnie, grabbing at her laptop, "Hang on, I'll find the nearest animal shelter... same street as the vet surgery. He probably works there."

"Get your stuff together then," Bobby instructed, "Looks like we're on stake-out." He grinned at her. "You do know that Valerie Solaras was only kidding, don't you?" he teased.

"She didn't go far enough." She gave Bobby a sideways glance. "How do you know who Valerie Solaras was, anyway?"

"Because I," beamed Bobby, "Am a Man of Knowledge. Just ask the gargoyles. Get your stuff, time to stake out the dog jail."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_We must be well out of town by now,_ whuffed Sam. The van had been moving for a good twenty minutes.

_Well, when you're brewing up evil occult juju, you don't want to be interrupted,_ Dean shrugged, as the van came to a halt.

The back door opened, and the vet beamed at them. "Here we are," he told them cheerfully, "Let's get inside."

Dean hopped out with a convincing show of obedient enthusiasm, but Sam's hung back.

_Come on, bro, don't tip him off,_ Dean implored, wagging his tail.

_It's... it smells so wrong,_ Sam complained, whining. The smell of _wrong-wrong-evil!_ was much stronger outside the warehouse the van had parked by. _I didn't realise it at the dog show, because I was trying so hard not to breathe in the smell of the vet tent, but..._ his dog-self took over, making his hindquarters collapse under him.

"Oh, don't be a big baby, Sam," crooned the vet, reaching into the van. Sam cringed away. "I know," the man said brightly, "Who'd like a treat?"

_There's something really evil in there, Dean, there's something OH YEAH!_ Sam's whine turned into a happy yip as he shot out of the van and sat at the vet's feet, eyeing the piece of dried liver. The man smiled, and patted him as he scoffed the delicacy.

_Ohhhh, that is soooo good,_ Sam huffed happily, smacking his chops.

"Good boy! Brave boy!" praised the vet. Sam found his tail involuntarily wagging at the praise. "Come on, let's go."

He let them into the warehouse, where they immediately noticed three things: a very large, intricate design drawn out on a large open floor space, a glass tank looking like a giant aquarium full of a sickly green liquid, and...

"Hey, calm down, calm down," the vet laughed as another dog came trotting across the floor to greet him happily. "I've brought you some more friends!" he told the friendly animal.

She sat back, and grinned at them. _Hello!_ she whuffed brightly, reaching up to lick at their muzzles in friendly greeting.

_Er_... Dean and Sam cocked their heads in bewilderment.

_Sam_, Dean mumbled in confusion_, What sort of... dog is... that?_

Sam eyed their newest acquaintance dubiously_. I think she is what's technically known as a 'mixed-breed' dog. Or possibly even a 'Heinz special'._

_I'm five sixty-fourths Rottweiler_, the strange animal told them proudly, tail wagging_, But only one sixty-fourth Wolfhound. _

_I... believe that_, was all Dean could manage.

For his fourth birthday, Dean had been given a spiral-bound flip-book of pictures of animals, with each page cut into several sections. The idea was to make strange new creatures by lining up different parts of different animals. His own particular favourite chimeric creation had been a Hippocatogatorsheepasaurus. He'd loved that book, and had played with it nearly every day, and had spent hours sitting with baby Sammy, making his little brother gurgle and shriek with laughter as he made the noises he thought the various patchwork animals should make.

Whoever was responsible for this dog had clearly also been given one of these books at an impressionable age.

She was, quite literally, a mixed-breed. That is, somebody had taken pieces from various dogs of different breeds, and stitched them together as a jigsaw of canine components. All four legs were different colours. One ear stood up, and one was floppy. The fur on her back was short and brindled, while her tail was long, with luxuriant red feathery hair. Whoever had... assembled her had done a competent job, both Winchesters noted, the sutures small and even and unobtrusive.

"Oh, Patch, you silly girl," the vet admonished the constructed dog fondly, "Knock it off! You'll have to excuse her," he smiled at the Winchesters, "She's got the brain of an Irish Setter. You're blonde on the inside, aren't you?" He ruffled the dog's mismatched ears fondly. "Well, she does have the kidneys and one lung of a Golden Retriever. Descended from champions, in her own special way."

Sam sniffed back at Patch. _Holy crap, _he breathed,_ There are the individual scents of at least a dozen separate dogs here...lots more, but they all mix together..._

_I am right here,_ Patch humphed at him, without rancour, _I have many sires, and many dams._

Dean had trotted across the cavernous space to the large tank. He jumped up, and put his paws against the glass.

_Holy shit_, he rumbled, _What the fuck is... that?_

"Ah, you've found _him_," the man spoke indulgently, scratching Dean's ears."This is what we're really here for, boys." Within the green fluid, a large... creature bobbed in gentle currents.

It was large, tall and heavily muscled. Its head was huge, the jaws parted slightly to reveal a set of teeth that put Dean in mind of Ronnie and her grumpy face. Whilst clearly inanimate and not actually alive, it managed to radiate menace.

"Magnificent, isn't he?" The man breathed, admiring his own handiwork. "Assembled from the finest specimens of the species that the country has to offer! The nose of a Bloodhound, the heart of a St Bernard, the ears and brain of a German Shepherd, the musculature of two Rottweilers, the digestive system of a Labrador, the lungs of a Newfoundland... he also has the determination of a Jack Russell, the fearlessness of a Pitbull, the persistence of a wolf, the protectiveness of a Bulldog, the working drive of a Border Collie. Once animated, he will be the epitome, the acme, the ultimate dog! There will be nothing I cannot achieve, nothing I cannot do, with such a dog at my beck and call!"

_Okay, we now know for a fact that this guy is evil, _decided Dean,_ Because that is definitely an 'Evildoer Reveals His Evil Plan' speech. All we need now is the 'bwahahahaha' on the end._

"Patch here is only proof-of-concept, with the leftovers," the man rambled on amiably, "So I suppose we have to make some allowances for the daft little thing..." The strange Lego-dog grinned up at him happily as he scratched her ruff. "She is a happy little creature, though, quite adorable."

_Oh, great, _Dean went on,_ So we've got the canine equivalent of 'Twins' happening here. Patch is Danny deVito, and Terminator-Dog in there is Arnold._

_But not 'animated' yet, whatever that means_, growled Sam, nosing over to the intricate design drawn on the bare concrete floor._ Shit, _he noted,_ Dean, this is drawn in blood..._

"Come away from there, Sam," the vet gently but firmly took hold of his collar, "Don't disrupt the sigils, that's a good boy."

_At least we know where all the dog blood went, or a hell of a lot of it, at any rate,_ Sam obediently sat outside the complex design_. Oh shit,_ he repeated, examining the various tracings and arcane marks, _Oh shit, Dean, this is bad, this is really, really, bad..._

_How bad?_ yipped Dean, joining his brother to look at the blood-decorated floor.

_Very very bad,_ replied Sam, involuntarily backing away, _It's a Summoning of some sort. This is an invitation extended to the Pit. But to what? It's only dog blood! That won't call up a demon from Hell, they'd just laugh at dog blood..._

The vet was looking critically at the two of them. "You know, I really do think I'll be able to finish this tonight," he said finally, "You are such a big boy, Sam, and you, Ace, are exactly what's needed. Here."

_What's needed here, if you ask me, is for us to bite through your jugular before you can LIVER TREATS!_ Dean's thoughts were derailed by a handful of delicious morsels. Unnoticed, the man snapped a lead onto his collar.

_Dean, we have to disrupt this, whatever he's going to LEAVE SOME FOR ME_! Sam was at the man's side instantly, traitorous tail wagging and prehensile tongue snuffling up the wonderful treats eagerly. "Good boy," the vet praised him again.

_Hey, he gave them to me!_ yapped Dean.

_He gave them to us! Share!_ Sam yapped back.

While the Winchesters haggled over the crumbs of dried liver, the man quietly lifted a syringe from a surgical table.

Dean was right about the vet being an Evildoer. He had definitely made the Revelation-Of-My-Evil-Plan speech.

The other completely predictable thing about Evil Geniuses is that they only make their Revelation-Of-My-Evil-Plan speech once they are certain that the heroes will not survive to tell anybody about it... (why they do this has never been satisfactorily explained. Come up with a genius evil plan, but not tell anybody except a handful of individuals that you believe are about to die. There's no kudos in that. Maybe they submit articles for peer review to the subscription-only **_Journal Of Evil Genius Wicked Designs And Malevolent Intent._** After all, part of being an Evil Genius is a conviction that ordinary mortals are your intellectual inferiors and cannot appreciate the breathtaking geniusness of your undertakings, even if they do get their panties in a twist about the evilness bit.)

_Your tongue is like flypaper!_ Dean snapped at his brother. _Stop it!_

_I'm bigger, so I should get more anywaYAIPE!_ Sam yelped as the needle slid into the scruff of his neck.

_Sam? Sam!_ Dean immediately forgot all about liver treats, and sniffed anxiously at his brother. He saw the vet put the syringe down. _Sam!_

_I'm okay,_ his brother whuffed,_ It felt like a needle, though..._ he leaned against Dean as his legs wobbled.

_What the fuck did you just do to my brother?_ Dean snarled viciously, only to be brought up short by the lead.

"You two really are buddies, aren't you?" observed the vet calmly as he frog-marched a now snapping, slavering Dean to the wall, tethering him to an eyelet. Dean fought and twisted and barked, but the man had clearly had a lot of experience in dealing with unco-operative animals.

_SAM!_ Dean's snarling redoubled as the vet moved back to where his brother was slowly but surely collapsing to the floor.

_Dean..._ he whined softly, _I feel really funny..._

"Now, don't you worry, Sam," the vet stroked his ears soothingly, "I would never condone cruelty to animals. It's just a little shot to help you relax." He tightened a veterinary tourniquet around Sam's front leg, and snipped away a small patch of fur. "This won't hurt," he reassured Sam. He was right, he was very deft, and the large bore needle slid easily into a prominent vein. "There," he smiled, taping the needle in, "Just relax, Sam, it'll be just like going to sleep..."

_It's not, you know, _Sam humphed,_ I've gone damned close to bleeding to death before now, and it's not like going to sleep..._

_Sam!_ He could hear Dean barking savagely, _SAM! Don't you fall asleep on me!_

_You know better too, Dean,_ Sam's tone was slightly reproachful, _You get the cold shivers, and the head spins, and feel nauseous..._

_SAM! _The collar chafed against Dean's neck, drawing blood.

The vacuum trap filling with Sam's blood look frighteningly large, and filled frighteningly quickly. The vet eyed it critically.

"That will be enough to get us started," he said with satisfaction, swapping the trap for a new one, and emptying the filled one into an ornate carved bowl. "Don't worry, Ace," he called cheerfully to Dean, "You'll play your part soon."

_I'll play my part by tearing your fucking throat out!_ Dean was beyond livid. The vet ignored him, carefully placing the bowl in the centre of the design on the floor withut disrupting it. He picked up a thick book, and began to read from it in Latin.

It didn't make sense, thought Sam, his mind drifting as his blood emptied into the vacuum trap, this was clearly a Summoning ritual, calling up something infernal, but no demon would answer. They were picky. It had to be human blood. Not dog blood. You couldn't summon a demon with dog blood. Why bother knocking on the door of Hell when you didn't have what they wanted? It wouldn't work. The lack of logic bothered him. No demon would answer. They had their pride after all. They'd been human once, it had to be human blood. Not dog blood. Dog blood. What in hell – or rather, what in Hell – would come for dog blood? What was in Hell that could possibly be interested in...

Oh, shit.

_Dean, _he panted, sides heaving_, Dean, I think I know what he's trying to summon. We are screwed..._

* * *

><p>Perilous enough? Sam's been drugged, and Dean's tied up with leather... maybe I'm on the wrong fanfic site... *puts a foot under the plot bunny wearing a leather studded harness and a lewd leer and boots it out the door - not going there...*<p>

Reviews make me fall to my knees and sigh in unrestrained gratitude (my life is that unremarkable). And I throw pouty fits when I don't get enough. I'm clearly some sort of review junkie. Supply me, O Wonderful Dealer/Readers! I promise to go away and pass out in somebody else's front yard. Really. And of course I will never, ever leave any nasty sharp commas lying around for anyone to stand on.


	14. Chapter 14

*le sigh* Real Life – it does have an irritating way of getting in the way of what you'd rather be doing, doesn't it? (ATM I'm home with teh sick, and when I go back to werk, I will be expected actually to do some werk.) It vexes me. Terribly.

FFN has been having issews with reviews recently, so if you thought you reviewed, but it didn't pop up, it's just the gremlins in the interwebs cables again, snacking on them probably. You're not going mad. Or maybe you are, but vanishing reviews is real, and not as a consequence of your deteriorating sanity. (Denizens – demented, but they get shit done.)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14<strong>

_It's... time. Now._

_The phrase that formed in her understanding was strange, alien. She was not accustomed to time as a taskmaster. It was fluid, stretchable, something to be bent at will as required._

_The strange sense of a physical presence demanding NOW within her was confronting, urgent, and very very important._

_She left the almost-place where she had denned, hidden herself away. Yes, it was... time._

_She lifted her muzzle to the ether, seeking an opportunity, an opening, an escape. She cast for the scent._

_There. A summons._

_She peered through not-space and not-time to the strangely confining and solid place and linear time. A summons, and... a physical form. That would do nicely._

_She had an advantage over the others who gathered and vied, worrying at the developing breach; she had been Topside before, knew what to look for, what to expect. And, of course, she had an added incentive (NOW) to be the one who claimed the opportunity, a pressing need for the solidity of physical matter. Snapping and snarling and fighting and rending and killing, she faced down the most vicious of the other would-be claimants._

_A summons. The one from Topside not nearly as demanding as the one within her. NOW._

_With the closest thing one of her kind could ever come to a sigh of relief, she let herself dissolve._

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"They're not in there," Ronnie told him grimly as Jimi returned from the recon she'd insisted he do of the animal shelter as soon as they arrived. She conferred briefly with the Rottweiler. "And they haven't been."

"Balls," growled Bobby. "Can he track 'em?"

"If they're still on the planet, yes," her smile was not pleasant. "Physical dimensions like time and space mean very little to Hellhounds. They can always find their prey. Or their Pack."

"You'd better get him onto it, then."

Ronnie conferred with Jimi again, while Bobby slouched, closed his eyes, and put his hands together on the wheel.

"Now I slouch to rest my eyes,  
>We've had a nasty new surprise.<br>I pray to tell you, Castiel,  
>Our dognap plan is shot to hell,<p>

Sam and Dean have been dognapped,  
>But now we don't know where they're trapped.<br>Jimi, though, can track those two -  
>We're off to find 'em PDQ,<p>

So if you have a moment spare,  
>We'd be real glad to see you there,<p>

Amen."

"What are you doing?" asked Ronnie, jumping back into shotgun as Jimi lifted his muzzle to the night.

"Just keepin' Feathers appraised of our plan," Bobby told her.

"We have a plan?" she asked.

"Yep. Follow Jimi, burst in on whatever the evil dognapper is doing, if those two idjits haven't done so already we stop it, then we deal with the dognapper to make sure he doesn't do it again."

"Simple. Straightforward. I like it," she mused.

Jimi barked twice sharply, nose twitching, eyes glowing the angry red of fanned coals. He set off at a brisk lope, heading out of town, with Bobby's truck in pursuit.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_Hell... hound,_ panted Sam shallowly, _He's summoning... Hellhound..._

_What?_ Dean paused in his escape attempts. _It can't be done! I only did it by accident. He's not even wearing a doily! He can't summon a Hellhound without a doily!_

_He's trying,_ Sam huffed, _Just because nobody's done it before... doesn't mean... won't work... it might..._

Dean's eye fell on the monstrous thing in the tank. _Oh, shit, _he growled,_ Oh, shit, he's not just summoning it, he's made it a Cujo-On-Steroids meat-suit! It will have a physical form! He's right, he'll be able to do anything if he can control a Hellhound! Shit!_ He renewed his struggles against his collar.

_Dean,_ whine Sam weakly.

_SAM!_ Dean barked, tugging at the lead. It refused to give. _Patch!_ he called desperately, _Patch!_ _You gotta help me! He's killing Sam!_

Patch trotted to his side, and regarded him sadly. _My new friends leave their matter here_, she told him mournfully, _I am sorry._

_We have to stop him!_ Dean barked urgently, _He's doing something evil! He's summoning... an evil dog! An unnatural spirit-dog!_

Patch looked unhappy._ He is my Alpha, _she whuffed uncertainly.

_No he's not! _Dean growled at her,_ He stole you from your Alpha! Stole your dams and sires from their Alphas! He took dogs away from their Alphas, their Packs, their Uprights, to make that thing in the tank over there, and now he's going to summon something evil to bring it to life. He's going to use it to do wrong things. He's going to use it to hurt Uprights!_

Patch looked at him as though he was speaking a language she couldn't understand_. But, that is... wrong..._ She looked at him closely. _You are not... you are..._ she was clearly surprised by what she saw.

_Yes, I'm actually human, an Upright, just pretending to be a dog, to stop that man from doing something really bad, _Dean explained quickly_, And Sam over there is my brother, he's an Upright too, and I have to get to him before he loses too much blood..._

Patch looked horrified. _That is... wrong,_ she repeated.

There was a crackle of power in the air, a tingling snap of ozone that made Dean's fur stand on end, and set all his canine instincts screaming _bad-wrong-evil_. Patch yelped in fright.

_Feel that?_ He snapped at Patch, _That's what he's doing. Help me stop him, Patch!_

"Now, now," smiled the man, walking over to where Dean snarled and slavered in his futile escape attempt, "You'd be better off saving your strength." A faint red glow had started pulsing in the middle of the arcane symbols on the floor. "Your kennel mate's blood is wonderfully strong and potent – the rite is underway. All we have to do now is wait for an answer. I'm sure we'll get one..."

A faint howl, sounding as though it came from the throat of a very large dog a very long way off, echoed through the warehouse.

"Excellent!" the vet continued. "As soon as the creature takes its vessel," he jerked a thumb at the monstrosity in the tank, "I need only make it a blood offering – I'm sure that Sam's wonderful blood will be enough to bind it most effectively – then you will play your role." He looked thoughtful. "Dogs are simple creatures," he mused, "Controlled by simple urges and instincts. The Three Fs, it's called sometimes. Naturally, as soon as he takes corporeal form the hound will want something to feed on, or something to fight with, or... well, you'd best just hope he's hungry or angry," the man grinned. Patch whined up at him. "Oh, don't worry, sweetie," he told her, patting her neck reassuringly, "You'll barely be a mouthful, he'll snap your neck and you won't feel a thing."

The howl sounded again, louder this time.

"I must just see how my blood offering is coming along," the vet smiled indulgently at Dean and Patch, "Be patient, Ace!"

_Great,_ growled Dean, _I'm going to be a Hellhound's lunch, chew toy, or love slave... you're just going to be a snack, Patch, once that thing is alive._

Patch looked plaintively toward the vet, then turned a determined expression towards Dean. _Backwards,_ she told him firmly.

_Huh?_ Dean cocked his head.

_You have to pull backwards,_ Patch said urgently_, You'll never break a leather lead, but you can pull out of a collar backwards. I... I used to do it all the time..._ she demonstrated, ducking her head and dropping her haunches. _Like this! Straight backwards!_

Dean mimicked her posture, and scrabbled backwards. His collar was tight, but it was slippery with blood, and he was determined...

He suddenly shot backwards, free of the collar and lead. Getting his haunches under himself, he launched himself at the vet, where the man was crouching over Sam, barking savagely.

_Get away from my brother you asshole!_

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Looks like this is it," remarked Bobby, pulling off the road into a lot by a warehouse. "I don't recognise the van, though, it must be..."

"Hello Bobby. And Ronnie." Castiel appeared seated between them. Ronnie screamed like a startled five-year-old.

"God's tits, Cas!" roared Bobby, "What are you tryin' to do, give a body a heart attack?"

"My apologies," the angel said. "I received your message, and wished to arrive as quickly as possible."

"Does he often do that?" gasped Ronnie, clutching her chest and trying to control her breathing.

"Only every damned time," muttered Bobby. "I think this is it." Jimi was standing, hackles bristling, eyes glowing, and hellteeth extruding, as he glared at a door. "The van is still warm," he added, checking, "So the evil dognapper can't have been here too long."

"So, let's go on in," said Ronnie, struggling with the door, "See what the hell is going on..."

A long howl sounded from inside the warehouse. Jimi responded with a bowel-watering growl.

"Damn this door!" Ronnie slammed a shoulder against it. "It's unlocked, but it won't move!"

"It is warded," Castiel announced, examining the door and the wall of the warehouse. "This entire building is closely warded from within."

"Warded?" repeated Bobby. "Warded against what?"

"Everything," Castiel answered, "Everything except dogs, and the person who did the warding. We cannot enter."

"Balls," muttered Bobby. He sighed heavily, in a most put-upon fashion. "Come on, then." He headed back to the truck.

Ronnie's face fell. "Can't we just send Jimi in?" she whined.

"No. We have no idea what's goin' on in there, but from that howl, if some idjit is trying to summon what I think they're trying to summon, Jimi will have his paws full just stayin' alive, and keepin' everybody else that way until we can do something. You too, Feathers."

"Bugger," griped Ronnie.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The crouching man was winded, and knocked a good distance across the concrete floor, when Dean cannoned into him, a savage black missile. As the vet lay gasping to get his breath back, Dean worried at the needle in Sam's foreleg with his teeth, while Patch licked Sam's ears in concern.

_Leave... me,_ Sam wheezed when the needle was out, _Stop... that..._

Dean whined, but did as his brother bid him, heading for the tank. With a determined growl, he threw himself against it.

"You are clever boy, aren't you, Ace," the vet gasped, rolling to his knees, and inspecting Dean's handiwork. He picked up the needle Dean had pulled out, and went to re-insert it into Sam's leg.

Patch planted herself between Sam's paws, and growled.

"Oh, Patch, you silly girl," crooned the vet in amusement, moving to brush her aside, "What do you think you're doing?"

_This,_ she yapped determinedly.

The sudden attack, its ferocity, and the intensity of the pain surprised him. It wasn't possible: he'd deliberately made her harmless. The goofiest brain he could find (from an Irish Setter), the smallest and puniest jaw muscles (from a Shi-tzu), the tiniest, most useless looking teeth...

From a Chihuahua.

Which just goes to show how damned good Chihuahuas are at keeping the essential evilness of their breed secret from even veterinary professionals.

Patch sank her teeth into the base of his thumb. The warehouse echoed with his screams of pain, and her gloating, satisfied cackling of _I'll swallow your soul!_ _I'll swallow your soul!_ _I'll swallow your soul!_

_Good work, Patch!_ barked Dean, jumping at the tank again. It was very large, and very heavy – it hardly rocked.

The faint red glow in the middle of the blood design was starting to swirl, coalesce, like a thickening mist. Dean threw himself at the tank, trying to break it, move it, anything, and then...

He did a doggy double take.

It was like the beginning of a joke: A large Rottweiler with glowing red eyes and teeth like butchers' knives, a grizzled old Mastiff, a red Queensland Heeler cattle dog and a scruffy black Briard walk into a warehouse.

The Mastiff looks around and whuffs_, Balls..._

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><p>Anybody who has read 'Can We Keep Him?' will recognise the reference to the doily, and anyone who has read 'Balls' will figure out who <em>she<em> is. :-)

Reviews are the Liver Treats in the Obedience Classes of Life!


	15. Chapter 15

The Pack - there's a starting prompt for fan art if ever there was one, Denizens... I'll be really impressed if somebody can get the trucker's cap and long-suffering expression onto a Mastiff.

This story's turned into a monster (a Mastiff, even?) but I think we're nearly there. Another chapter to go, and maybe a chapterlet to finish...

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><p><strong>Chapter 15<strong>

The scene before the newcomers was mayhem: Sam was sprawled on the floor, sides heaving, Dean had his front paws against the glass of a huge tank containing what looked like a furry shark, and the vet was dancing around with a small... animal hanging from his thumb by its teeth, wailing in pain.

In the middle of the floor, the centre of the intricate occult signage began to glow like a puddle of molten metal.

_Kill... it,_ Sam gasped, _Hellhound vessel... kill it..._

Ronnie shot across the room, a red brindled streak, and leaped to slam into the glass. It rocked half an inch. She began swearing in a combination of Canine and her own native dialect as she and Dean repeatedly threw themselves ineffectively at the tank.

_Get outta the way, ya idjits, _huffed Bobby, starting a slightly arthritic run in their direction. Jimi fell into step with the pace Bobby set.

For one awful moment, the man with the jigsaw dog attempting to chew off his thumb saw the huge, greying junk-yard dog, accompanied by the oversized Rottweiler, heading for his creation. The animal didn't have as much speed as the small Red Heeler – his professional eye couldn't help making a differential diagnosis of arthritis in the shoulders – but Mastiffs were bred as war dogs by the Romans, and this one had to be at the top end of the weight range, 250 pounds, and was wearing the expression of a Centurion's favourite bearing down on a particularly tasty-looking barbarian...

The two dogs hit the tank with what must've been a combined mass of at least 400 pounds.

"Noooooooooooooooooooo!" he howled, sounding like one of his patients as the dogs hit the tank. It rocked once, twice, then fell over.

The green goo spilled out, its grotesque, inert contents sclooping gluggily across the floor.

Slipping in the gelatinous medium, Jimi pounced on it, hellteeth bristling...

With a disconcerting wet tearing sound, the ghastly construct's head tore off.

There was another distinct tearing sound from the searing heat at the centre of the summoning, only this sounded like the top being torn off a mountain.

"What have you done?" cried the vet in despair, "What have you done?"

_We've thwarted your evil plan, you dick!_ Dean yapped cockily, making his way to Sam's side. _Let's hear you go 'bwahahahaha' now._

The vet managed to dislodge Patch from his hand. He dropped to his knees, scrabbling for the mostly-filled vacuum trap he'd been bleeding Sam into.

"It might be enough," he muttered fearfully, "It has no vessel, but this might be enough to bind it..."

_What's he muttering about?_ demanded Ronnie, heading for Patch to see if the small animal was all right.

_The Hellhound,_ answered Castiel, from where he was at Sam's side, sniffing at him urgently. _He has summoned a Hellhound, and intended to use Sam's blood to bind it to his will, make it do his bidding. He probably does not have enough to accomplish that. It will run loose._

_Then stop the summoning! _Dean barked urgently._ Disrupt it, or something!_

Cas lifted his shaggy head, and peered at the glowing centre of the design drawn in blood.

_We are too late,_ he pronounced, _The breach is opened, the Hellhound is answering. We must deal with it once it is here._

_How?_ asked Ronnie, _How? We can't wield weapons, we haven't __got__ any bloody weapons, we're frigging dogs, for Christ's sake, extremely __mortal__ dogs, I might point out..._

_We got our best shot right there already_, Bobby nodded at Jimi, who was sitting right on the edge of the summoning design, staring intently at the centre.

_Yeah, see how calm he is?_ Dean pointed out, _He knows he can kick this thing's ass, right J-Man?_

Dean appeared to have a point. Jimi was staring intently, alertly, but in an unalarmed fashion, into the incandescent swirling.

_There must be some things we can use_, yapped Ronnie, knocking over a tray of instruments, _Steel contains iron, surgical instruments are made of steel..._

The vet stood up on shaking legs with the trap of blood. "It might be enough," he muttered again, staggering towards the blood diagram. A deep rumbling shook the floor. "If I can just get it to..."

_THIS IS WRONG!_

With an angry howl, Patch shot across the room. She leaped, and hit him in the small of the back, sending them both sprawling into the circle as he dropped the container of blood, which cracked on impact. A sudden silent explosion of superheated air, and thick sulphurous smoke blew outwards from the seething centre, followed by a pressure front that knocked the ones still standing off their feet.

_Patch?_ coughed Dean, peering through the heavy smoggy air, _Patch? Are you there?_

When the smoke cleared, the designs on the floor had turned from red or dull brown to scorched black. Two shapes became apparent within the blackened design: the dazed and bloodied form of the vet, and Patch.

The small dog sat unconcerned and apparently unharmed, radiating heat, her eyes glowing the fierce red of a furnace.

Jimi left his place outside the circle, and walked carefully forward. He bent down to sniff noses with her, the glow in his eyes matching hers.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_He was older. Much older. That was the nature of a linear existence. A full-grown, matured veteran of the Hunt, well into middle age. He had really been no more than a precocious pup when she had first encountered him, infuriating, yet so cock-sure of himself, fearless and confident. A worthy mate. She had chosen well._

_I give you greetings, she rumbled, the sound like a tremor running through a rocky canyon._

_You have returned, he observed, nudging at her flank, It is time._

_It is time. I cannot remain here. I cannot Den with you. She found she was a little... regretful about that. I must return to my Pack. I do not belong here. This is not my territory. But these... _

_Their blood will help raise them, he assured her, As is the way of things._

_Yes, she agreed, It should be the way of things. She relaxed then. They would be safe. She peered through the rigid stream of time in this realm, and saw that by the time he left his matter, they would be full-grown, strong and happy. They would be Hunters' dogs. Strangely enough, that thought pleased her._

_I must leave now, she told him. I return. And... she turned to the moaning human form beside them, I have prey..._

_She left her matter then, and stood over the man in her true form. He gaped up at her, as those she was sent to collect usually did when they finally got a glimpse of what had really come for them._

_Hellhounds were the original Hunters, Guardians with the task of ensuring that departed souls did not escape to trouble the living. As such, they only really needed trick. And that trick was 'Fetch'._

_With jaws the size of a Kodiak bear's, she seized him by the head, and dragged him back to the Pit. His screams and terror made a very satisfying meal._

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was difficult to see exactly what was happening; the air above the summoning danced and shimmered with heat, the shapes of Jimi and Patch and the evil vet wavering and rippling. The others saw Jimi and Patch sniff noses, exchange nudges of greeting, then part. Patch fell to the floor, and _something_ surged out of her, a clinging vortex of red-yellow smoke and heat, a further distortion of the air that held a promise of brutal violence, twining itself around the screaming man who writhed in its grasp as it poured itself back into the swirling, rumbling breach. As it vanished, the glowing fracture fell in on itself, the heat haze dissipated, and there was silence.

As they picked themselves up, Bobby gave voice to their thoughts.

_Does anybody have any idea what the hell just happened?_

Castiel cocked his head – if any humans had been watching they would definitely have gone 'Awwwww!' _I believe the Hellhound possessed the smaller animal, then discorporated and dragged the veterinarian back to Hell with it. Certainly, his own conduct damned him._

_So, Hellhound is gone, evildoer is bodily dragged off to the Pit without so much as a bwahaha - does that mean the good guys have won? _Asked Dean.

_Yeah, _answered Ronnie, raising her nose to scent the air,_ Smell that? That is the absence of the smell of evil._

_There's still... you... _Sam told her with a weak grin, sniffing at her.

_Cheeky bastard,_ she nosed at his flank, _Castiel, can you fix him?_

_Not in this physical form,_ the angel-dog told her_, But I believe that midnight is rapidly approaching, which means that the Transformation will very soon..._

There was a dull flash of yellow light...

"... end, and we shall revert to our human forms," the angel finished, smoothly nabbing a green drape from the tray of instruments Ronnie had overturned and offering it to Sam as an interim modesty conservation measure.

"Er..." Sam accepted the drape as the angel touched his forehead, purging the sedative from his system and restoring his blood volume, "Er... oh... um, thanks, Cas, that's better. Er."

"Right, so... AAAAAAAARGH!" Dean let out a horrified shriek as he was suddenly standing, very human and very naked, in the middle of the warehouse. His eyes darted around as he scuttled behind a nearby trolley. "AAAAAAARGH! HEY!" His tone of horror turned to one of outrage. "Why do you three have your clothes on?"

"I had a chance to do a bit more work on that spell after I doggified you," Bobby told him, unable to suppress a bit of a grin, "You gotta admit, it's an improvement..."

"Cas!" Dean yelped, "Cas, I need your trench-coat, RIGHT NOW!"

The angel stood and handed his coat to Dean. "I shall fetch your clothing immediately," he announced seriously, disappearing then reappearing with a couple of plastic bags, handing one to Sam and one to Dean. "Bobby thought it prudent to have these with us as a precautionary measure, in case we were not able to return you to the motel in dog form before midnight."

"Great, I'm Cinderella, and at midnight my fur coat turns into a birthday suit," grumbled Dean, hopping on one foot as he dressed.

"I dread to think what the Handsome Prince is going to want you to try on," grinned Bobby.

"Ooooh, black undies," leered Ronnie, as Dean pulled an expression alarmingly close to a bitchface at her.

"Come on, Dean," Sam reproached him, pulling on his own clothes, "The good guys won, the bad guy went Downstairs, evil Summoning averted, it's all good, it's what passes for a happy ending for... Oh, no..."

Sam made his way across the floor to where Jimi sat beside Patch. The little dog was sprawled on the floor in the remains of the disintegrated sigils, panting heavily, whining, her flanks twitching. Sam dropped to his knees.

"Patch! Patch! What's wrong, girl?" He stroked the mismatched ears, and her tongue snaked out to lick weakly at her hand.

"She was right in the middle of it when the Hellhound emerged," Dean observed, "It must've done some sort of internal injury to her. Damn." He joined his brother. "She didn't deserve this. She did what she could to help us."

"Cas?" Sam turned a pleading expression towards the angel, "Cas, can you help her? Can you heal her?"

The angel examined the small patchwork dog briefly. "There is nothing I can do for her, Sam," he answered, "We must let nature take its course."

"Damn it, Cas!" snarled Dean, stroking the animal's heaving side, "She doesn't deserve this! At least put her out of her misery!"

The angel looked totally confused. "I do not understand," he said finally, "I cannot intervene in this."

Dean opened his mouth to say something that might have included the words 'dick', 'wings' and 'with', but he was cut off by Bobby's laughter. "What the hell, Bobby?"

"He really can be clueless, can't he?" smiled Ronnie, kneeling at the dog's head and crooning encouragingly. "How the hell he turned out to be a Rottweiler and not a Beagle is anyone's guess."

"Get out of the way, ya idjits," Bobby chuckled as he elbowed the Winchesters away, and knelt by the panting dog. "She's not dyin', you pair of chuckleheads. She's whelping. She's having puppies!"

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><p>Review are the Puppies in the Whelping Box of Life!<p> 


	16. Chapter 16

For anyone still wondering, Bobby turned into a Mastiff, Ronnie turned into a Queensland Heeler (I guess she is from Queensland after all), and Castiel turned into a Briard. Ronnie would much rather have wolfed out, but the wards wouldn't let her through, and this way, she got to keep her clothes on when she reverted. That might be a trick she tries to learn from Bobby's spell.

Aaaaaaaaand speaking of Bobby the Mastiff, one of the Denizens has been **At It Again** (Denizens – depraved, but they get shit done). If you want to see Doggy!Bobby, complete with hat, go check out Bartlebead's handiwork at httpCOLON /rince1windDOT livejournalDOT

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><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

"Puppies?" Dean blinked like a confused lizard. "Puppies? As in, baby dogs? Small, squirming, damp and slightly disgusting, getting squeezed out of their mother like squooshy little beanie toys puppies?"

"Those exact ones," Bobby confirmed, eyeing Patch, "Glad to see you paid attention to the theoretical lessons during Sex Ed, and not just the practicals."

Castiel stared hard at Patch with his most penetrating diagnostic MRI eye-sex stare. "The pups are Jimi's," he announced.

"But... how?" Sam was equally dumbfounded. "She wasn't in whelp, I didn't smell it on her when we came in!"

"They are three-quarters Hellhound, and one quarter Rottweiler," the angel went on. "I believe the Hellhound used Patch as a physical vessel in this reality, and left a litter of pups behind when it... or she, returned to Hell."

"That's impossible!" declared Sam, looking bewildered. "All they did was sniff noses!"

"Yeah, yeah talk about safe sex," Dean nodded vigorously.

"Unless the Hellhound was already in whelp before she manifested," finished Castiel.

"Then how can they be Jimi's?" Ronnie frowned.

"Is this some 'Back To The Future' thing?" asked Dean, "Where at some point in the future, Jimi is going to get down and dirty with a lady Hellhound, and now she's come back to this point in time to, er, hand off her puppies to a surrogate Mom?"

Understanding dawned on Sam's face. " 'Not Back To The Future'," he corrected, "Blast From The Past. Jimi had, er, intimate relations with a Hellhound already. When he was really still just a pup himself. When you were getting your panties in a twist about getting him desexed."

Dean looked bemused. "That was, what, seven years ago? It takes seven years to gestate, er, three-quarter hell-pups?"

"Time is not a binding property of nature to Heavenly or Infernal creatures," Castiel reminded him.

"Most likely, she's been down there, crossin' her legs, waiting for the right opportunity to come Topside to have them," Bobby opined, "The wellbeing of her litter is the most important thing to a bitch in whelp. She'll do everything she can to make sure she has somewhere safe to have 'em and keep 'em."

"Which, presumably, is why she's left them here with Jimi," smiled Ronnie, scratching Patch under the chin, "If a bitch dies or leaves, a litter's best hope is with their family, their Pack, to take over and keep raising them."

"So, Doctor Doggenstein's plan kinda worked, after all," Dean mused.

Patch let out a yelp, and twitched, bending around to lick at her flanks.

"She's frightened," Ronnie translated, "She was put together, not born a bitch, so she doesn't really know what to do."

The dog yelped again, and something began to emerge...

"Oh, God, what do we do? What do we do?" asked Dean anxiously.

"Uh, we boil water and fetch towels," Sam told him uncertainly, "I remember that from when you were not-pregnant. There must be water and towels around here somewhere..."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember, water, towels," Dean nodded again, "So, we'll go and look for boiling water and OH GOD ITS HEAD IS STICKING OUT!"

"That's how it usually happens," observed Bobby. "Tear that drape up and throw it over, would you?"

Dean scrambled to obey, ripping at the green cloth. Bobby took it, and a moment later handed a piece back to Dean with a small, wet, bloodied, gloopy bundle. "Here, rub him dry."

"Eeeer aaaaargh eeerrrrrgh," Dean forced himself to look at the mucky handful. "Oh, God, it looks like a great big lumpy booger..." Swallowing, he looked closer. "Oh, no, it's not breathing." His face became sad. "This one's dead, Bobby."

"Oh, give him here," snarled Ronnie, seizing the pup from him, and rubbing it briskly with the drape. "Like this. His mother should be licking him, but she doesn't know..." she handed the limp, sticky thing back to him.

"Another boy," announced Bobby, slapping it into Sam's hands. "You too, Sam."

"You know, I'm feeling a bit nauseous," said Sam plaintively, "I've just recovered from nearly bleeding to death, hypovolemic shock, you know, and..."

"NOW, Sam," insisted Bobby, using The Voice. Concentrating on not throwing up, Sam did as he was told. "I think Dean is right," he agreed reluctantly, "This one's dead, too."

"Boy," Bobby unceremoniously dropped another gloopy handful into a drape, and shoved it into Castiel's hands.

The angel glared at the pup. "This thing is the spawn of an Abomination," he announced primly.

"Yes," agreed Ronnie pleasantly, "And if you don't start rubbing him dry right now, I will personally give free rein to my own very special brand of Abomination, and make your existence extremely unpleasant."

"I am an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven," Castiel informed her without anger, "There is nothing you could do to injure me. In any case, I would merely heal my vessel."

"I'm sure you would," she smiled sweetly, "But how annoying would it be for your vessel to have to chase around after its head when I twist it off and play football with it?"

"Just do it, Cas," suggested Dean, still scruffing briskly at his own bundle, "It's only a couple of days to the full moon, and you don't want to fuck with a she-wolf with a case of Pre-Lunar Syndrome..."

Castiel regarded the small squishy item in his hands. "Simulation of the bitch's lickings should dry the puppy off, and stimulate it to begin breathing," he said, rubbing briskly.

"And a girl," announced Bobby, passing the pup to Ronnie. "I think that's all of 'em," he added.

"This isn't working," Sam said sadly, "It must be just impossible for something with so much Hellhound heritage to survive Topside, as a physical being." He stopped rubbing. "It's a shame, they're cute little things, really..."

The tiny creature gasped soundlessly and squirmed.

Sam's eyes bugged. "Oh, God, it's alive!" he squeaked, rubbing harder, "It's alive!"

"Good work, Dr Frankenstein," snorted Bobby, "Just keep that up, and..."

The puppy Dean was tending to let out a squeak that amusingly mirrored Sam's voice. "He squeaked!" Dean announced, "Hey, Bobby, he squeaked!"

"We'll change his oil later, then," Bobby told him.

Castiel peered seriously at the puppy he was rubbing. "I believe that this one is also responding to ersatz stimulation," he announced seriously.

"Oh, Cas, you dirty talker you, stimulating your ersatz in front of us all..." Dean couldn't help himself.

"It also appears to be breathing." The angel went on. The pup let out a piercing squeal. "Its lungs would appear to be healthy and in good working order." He held it up and peered at it closely. "There is no need to raise your voice," he told it sternly, "We are all quite close by." The pup let out an even louder vocalisation.

"Give him here, Feathers," grumbled Bobby, putting the pup next to Patch. She nosed around to see what it was, sniffed him, and gave him an experimental lick. "There, see? He just wanted his Mom."

Soon the four pups were snuggled against Patch and nursing. "Well, she seems to be figuring it out quick enough," smiled Ronnie. "What now?"

"I guess we take her back to the yard," Bobby scratched his head, "I still got Rumsfeld's whelping box."

Jimi leaned over Patch, and sniffed tentatively at the small, black, squirming bundles, whining uncertainly.

"Yep, they're yours, J-Man," grinned Dean. "You know, they're kinda cute, once they're cleaned up and furry and not, you know, covered in disgustingly gloopy... gloop."

"Yeah, absence of gloop is good," agreed Sam readily, "I'm totally on board with absence of gloop."

"They are astonishingly and inexplicably endearing for creatures borne of an Abomination of the Pit," Castiel seemed almost surprised. "Whilst I know that as a Warrior of Heaven I should smite them, my vessel is experiencing an urge to smile, and stroke them." His face wrinkled in confusion. "Awwwwwwww." The angel cocked his head. "I do not understand why my vessel made that noise," he mused.

"It's the cute, Castiel," snorted Ronnie in amusement, "It's one of the drawbacks of inhabiting a human vessel. You are completely vulnerable to the cute."

Castiel frowned. "Awwwwwwww," he went again. "It appears to be correlated with the sight of the puppies," he decided. "Awwwwwww."

"Better watch out, Feathers," grinned Bobby, "Next thing you know, you'll be crying at the end of 'Titanic'."

"Why would anyone cry at the end of 'Titanic'?" asked Ronnie. "Leonardo di Caprio freezes to death and sinks without trace – I call that a happy ending."

"I am not acquainted with Mr di Caprio," said Castiel, "However, I would of course regret seeing one of my Father's human children die accidentally and tragically, though I would not cry, but would rejoice at him finding eternal rest in the Kingdom of Heaven. Awwwwwwwww."

"When Celine Dion started to sing, Sam cried," Dean offered. "I just wanted to chew my own leg off."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Idjits."

"Awwwwwwwwwwww."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

They travelled by AngelAir to get back to Bobby's yard as quickly as possible to settle Patch and her puppies into their new home, although Dean insisted that Castiel fetch him some Apricot and Prune muffins afterwards before departing for Heaven.

"There's something I'd like to do before I go," Ronnie told Bobby. She'd fetched a small box from her truck.

"You sure?" Bobby asked her.

Ronnie smiled. "I took Mako and Arko back to Wildhunt," she said, "Their dogs have been 'going home' since they first bred from Arcadia. This is where Joni came from."

"You go ahead, then," Bobby said. "It'll flower again, you know."

He was right. Ronnie scattered Joni's ashes around the gnarled old rosemary almost-tree where her mother's ashes had been strewed weeks earlier, and it blossomed blood red flowers within a week.

After she'd made her goodbyes, Ronnie sought out Sam before she left. "Here," she grinned, shoving a parcel into his hands, "Give this to your brother on his birthday."

"It's not a bomb, is it?" asked Sam.

"Oh, no, it's worse than that, much worse," she smirked. "See ya round. Don't O.D. on the cute."

"I'll try not to. Speaking of whelping," he lowered his voice, leaving the comment hanging in the air. Ronnie's face became carefully shuttered. "I smelled it, when I was a dog," he clarified. "After Patch came out of that encounter pregnant, I realised what the scent was. So, er, how far along...?"

She sighed. "About six weeks, I think," she replied. "I haven't told Andrew yet. I wanted to make sure. No, scratch that, I'm sure, I wanted to indulge in rank cowardice." She looked worried. "It shouldn't have happened," she went on, "I'm too old, I shouldn't breeding at my age..." She shot an imploring look at him. "Don't tell anybody," she begged him, "Not yet. Andrew should know first."

"You won't know it from under the bed," he assured her. "But congratulations."

"Yeah, I just hope it's only the one," she sighed. "I've been having nightmares about that bloody angel and his pronouncements about women over forty having kids. 'The older a woman is, the higher is her probability of a multiple birth. Further, the women of your family's maternal line have enjoyed undiminished fecundity into middle age for several generations'," she intoned in a flat voice, doing a remarkably convincing impression of Castiel.

Sam laughed. "Well, I'll make sure I act totally surprised when I find out through official channels," he promised her.

"Thanks Sam," she smiled. "Oh, and do me a favour. If you get a chance, get a picture of Dean with his present."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"They look like Rotties," Bobby decided, when the pups were two days old. "Maybe they take their cue for their physical form from their physical ancestors, which would mean Grandma Rumsfeld." He bent down to pick up Patch's breakfast bowl, patting her head. As he did so, one of the pups pulled itself out of the feeding puppy pile, and squirmed towards Bobby, snubby nose questing, small head wobbling from side to side.

"Get back in there and eat, ya idjit," Bobby smiled at the tiny bundle, shifting it gently back to tangle with the rest of the litter. The little thing determinedly removed itself again, wiggling clumsily in the direction of Bobby, putting a foot in the face of a brother as he did so. The stepped-on pup, the smallest of the litter, began to squall loudly, managing to give a distinct impression of being extremely annoyed.

"Looks like we've got another one," smirked Dean. He and Sam had been spending plenty of time with Patch and her litter, carefully watched by Janis, making sure that Patch was getting the hang of motherhood. Jimi occasionally stuck his head in, whined uncertainly, and beat a hasty retreat.

"Got another what?" asked Sam with a yawn, poking his head into the laundry.

"Another Rumsfeld," clarified Dean. "Every time Bobby comes in, this little guy wants Bobby cuddles. Jesus, Lars, knock it off!" he admonished the outraged pup, who was still protesting loudly about being used as a stepstool, stroking the tiny thing until he quieted, and went back to nursing.

"Lars?" Sam asked dubiously. "You've named them already?"

"Of course," replied Dean. "Lars, Lita, Lemmy, and Rumsfeld."

Sam sighed. "Oh, God, do I even want to know?"

"Well, Rumsfeld is obvious, because he's already chosen Bobby to adopt," Dean pointed out. "The one who won't shut up," he indicated the smallest pup, "Is Lars, because he may be small but he makes lots of noise, this is Lemmy," he indicated the largest male, "Because he has two little warts on his nose, and this, this is Lita, because she's a classy chick who's going to grow up to kick ass with the boys on their own turf. Oh, and she's hot." The female pup had delicately arched eyebrows, and already showed indications of fine-boned features.

"You know who she looks like?" said Bobby, "She looks just like her Aunty Joni did at that age."

"How can you tell?" demanded Sam. "It's like human babies. They all look the same when they're newborn. Bright red, no teeth, and screaming."

"Don't you listen to him, guys," Dean instructed the pups, "He was hit in the head by a book at a young age, and he needs to get laid."

"What we all need is breakfast," grumped Bobby, patting Patch and Janis and heading for the kitchen.

"Sounds like a plan," agreed Sam, following him.

"Hey, leave some bacon for me!" Dean hurried to join them. "Don't you dare eat all the..."

He walked right into the ambush. His father would've facepalmed in despair.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Bobby and Sam chorused. Jimi whuffed happily. On the kitchen table was a large chocolate cupcake, with two candles in the shapes of the numbers '4' and '0' on it. Dean swore.

"Nuh uh," frowned Bobby, "The birthday boy isn't allowed to swear."

"That's right," Sam backed him up, lighting the candles.

"I hate you both so much," grouched Dean.

"What? Come on, it's the new thirty!" Sam grinned at him. "And you're getting cake for breakfast."

To add insult to injury, they insisted on singing 'Happy Birthday', while Jimi enthusiastically howled along.

"Tonight, you will both die in your sleep," Dean muttered.

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport," insisted Bobby, "Or you won't get any presents."

"Presents?" Dean suddenly looked interested. "There's presents?"

"For a milestone like this, of course there's presents!" Sam assured him.

There were presents. From Sam, a new and pristine copy of 'Slaughterhouse Five', from Bobby an intricately engraved silvered demon-knife ("If it can be stabbed, you oughta be able to kill it with this"), a large packet of jerky 'from Jimi'...

"And Ronnie left you this," Sam handed over the parcel. "She promised it's not a bomb."

Dean squished it gingerly. "It doesn't smell bad enough to be a piece of something dead," he decided, "It's probably safe."

He unwrapped it.

Bobby and Sam went "Awwwwwwwww."

Sam was adamant that he try it on.

Dean was irate when Sam took his picture.

Dean said he was going to salt and burn it, and its demented producer. He said he would rather go naked. He said he would rather freeze to death.

In reality, it was probably the best made, most comfortable and warmest sweater he'd ever had, and while he claimed to hate it, he wore it until it fell to pieces through sheer wear.

Even if it did have a rendering of a cross-eyed Rottweiler puppy on the front.

**THE END**

* * *

><p>I thought there might be an overrun on this, but having got here, I think this is a good spot for it to end. It's a whopper this one, innit? Thanks to all the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In who read and reviewed, even if some of you do keep sending me plot bunnies. Consider this one stomped! So, until next the wretched rabbity writing rodents strike, tata, and remember, Reviews are the Adorable Birthday Sweaters for the Depressing Birthdays of Life! (Actually, it is my birthday in a couple of hours, but I'm just happy to be a year older and a year odder, so no complaints from me.)<p> 


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